Give It Your Best Shot
by Zenathea
Summary: Some men were born average and went on to live an average life. He was not, had never been, and would never be one of those men. With his ancestry, it was hardly a surprise. Facing off against enemies old and new, very few things could come more natural to him. No Slash. AU. Dimension Travel with a dash of Time Travel. Darker themes: war, politics, questionable morality, and etc.
1. Worldly Travel

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, JKR's and whatnot.

* * *

**Give It Your Best Shot**

_**by **_

**Zenathea**

**Chapter 1 – Worldly Travel**

"Fuck!" Harry Potter swore and let out a pained filled groan. He knew that he had been right. He had told Ron that they shouldn't have gone in without back up. He had told the red head that the place looked unstable. Of course, Ron Weasley, Avenger of Light, had dismissed his concerns. After all, if a Death Eater thought it was a good enough building to retreat to for cover, then the inside couldn't possibly be a mirror image of the outside. No, there was no way that the floors were crumbling and the walls were buckling, just as the mortar was falling apart and the roof was caving in. Nope, there was not a chance in hell that the war-torn building, and every other war-torn building along the street, was unsafe to enter.

With another groan, Harry attempted to shut his mind to the pain coursing through him so that he could do a quick health assessment. He had no clue how many floors he had ended up falling. All he knew was that he had followed Ron up several flights of stairs and deep into the rundown office building in pursuit of the enemy. They had ended up splitting up on one of the upper floors to do a standard sweep and recovery, having lost their target amongst the many corridors the second that the bastard had opted to take his chances amongst the offices, instead of continuing towards the roof. It had been when he had just finished clearing the ninth office on his side of the building that a blinding flash of sickly looking light had come hurdling towards him from up the hall. He had managed, or at least he thought that he had managed to erect a shield in time. Regardless of if he had or not, the curse had still sent him flying through the air and crashing violently to the floor some twenty feet back. The next thing that he knew, the floor was caving beneath him and he was falling.

Harry felt the tension leave his body, upon finally managing to force his mind away from the pain and to the rest of what he was feeling. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, he was lying in a comfortable bed with blankets pulled up to his chest and a hand lolled lazily at his side, while the other rested up by his head. He must have taken the hit harder than he had thought, as he sure as hell didn't remember losing consciousness at any point.

Fully expecting to open his eyes to a wood-paneled room in St. Mungo's, which had thankfully been the first building in Britain to be rebuilt after the war, Harry froze – his paranoia and observation skills honed over the duration of the war kicking into high gear – as he opened his eyes to a blue walled, wood floored room that he had no recollection of. There was a Gryffindor banner hung above a dark stained writing desk in the far corner. A set of matching bookcases filled with books was to the left of the desk. A window covered with deep blue, sophisticated looking curtains was centered between the bookcases and the wall that the bed that he was resting in was position against. A small sitting area had been set up below the window. Bedside the bed was a richly stained bedside table with a mass of fiction books and a lone oil lamp stacked upon it. Not far from the bedside table was a shelf that looked to be filled with random possessions. A Nimbus 2000 was leaned against it, appearing new and hardly used, and a wardrobe had been shoved in the corner opposite the bed with the door of the room position along the far wall between it and the desk.

With slow movements, Harry pushed himself to sit up. He winced, his muscles sore and his joints stiff. However, he noticed that the pain had receded somewhat without him having to continuously employ Occlumency to block it. As gingerly as possible and with full intentions of finding out the status of his current situation as quickly as possible, he swung his legs off the bed. He scowled and felt his paranoia rise – panic momentarily gripping him, before he mastered the emotion – upon finding himself stripped bare down to his pants with his wand and its holster missing from his wrist. He scowled deeper, sensing that something was indeed very wrong, as he took in how pale, scrawny, and unblemished his body was.

"What the hell…?" Harry frowned at his hands, which were smaller than he remembered them being a day ago. He brought his right hand up to his face and studied it closely, as if it were a strange plant specimen or a bug that he had never seen before. Where the words _'I must not tell lies.' _had once been carved into the back of his hand, there was now nothing but smooth skin. As the implications of such a discovery set in, his other hand flew to his forehead, feeling for the one scar that would surely remain no matter what happened to him. He felt his stomach plummet and all the blood drain from his face, as his hand did not find the jagged edges of his famous lightning bolt scar, but only even, undamaged skin.

Before he could think too long on his missing scars or his too small hands and scrawny body, a soft, melodic humming that sounded from somewhere beyond the closed door of the room that he was in altered him to the presence of others nearby. As the humming drew nearer, he had but a moment to decide on a course of action.

Judging from the pain still afflicting him, he wasn't exactly in any condition for a physical fight, and while he was capable of passive magic to an extent, he had yet to grow proficient at it and, therefore, wouldn't have much success with using it in a fast pace duel. So, without his wand, which he could see nowhere within the room, he wouldn't be up for a magical fight either. Fleetingly, he cast his eyes around the room, assessing the situation as best he could and looking for a weapon of any sort. However, everything about the room was benign. There were parchment and school books in disarray on the writing desk, a combination of beginner magical theory books and magical fiction tales in the bookcases, and photos, knickknacks, and various other random items on the shelf by the beside table. There was nothing in the room that would suggest he was under threat or being held captive, and there was nothing that looked very useful as a weapon. All in all, it appeared to be a room designed for and used by a teenage boy.

_And you apparently look like a teenage boy,_ his mind reminded him snidely. Suspicion and uneasy flooded him. Benign as it all may appear, it was far from benign at all.

With the humming sounding as if it was right outside the door, or was at least very close, Harry made his decision, electing to take a Slytherin approach to the situation. For the time being, it seemed that, whoever his captors were, they weren't interested in harming him. The entire setup smelt of trickery and of lulling him into a false sense of security. With all things considered, he was certain that it ought to be relatively safe for him to play along, while still in a vulnerable state. When he regained his strength and possibly located his wand, or at least _a _wand, then he could blast the bastards to pieces and attempt to figure out where he was and how to undo whatever the hell it was that had been done to him.

Harry had barely managed to lie back in bed and pull the deep blue comforter back over him, when the door of the room opened. He inwardly cursed as light flooded his eyes, stealing his vision. After discretely blinking a few times, he squinted his eyes against the abrasive light, allowing his night vision to subside.

He watched from his position on the bed, as a petite, red haired woman swiftly entered the room, while continuing to hum. She never once glanced towards him, as she flicked her wand at the curtains over the window, causing even more light to flood the room, as the curtains drew back and tied themselves off. Still humming, she picked up the few items of discarded clothing lying about the room, before leaving quietly and shutting the door softly behind her.

Harry sat back up the moment that she was gone, openly gapping after her. Certainty he had not just seen what he thought that he had seen. _No, no you didn't,_ he assured himself, reminding himself that everything that he had seen and would see was a trick. The woman who had just entered the bedroom was not his mother. Lily Potter had died 22 years ago.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Harry pushed back his anger at the thought of his mother's memory being tarnished in such a crude way. He needed to think objectively. Rash action, when he was not in top form and did not have his wand, would most certainly result in him getting himself killed. He was going to need to be smart about how he proceeded. Clearly, whoever was in charge had put a lot of thought into how to get whatever it was that they wanted from him. He really couldn't afford to let his emotions rule him at the moment.

"Lily, have you seen my tie?" a male voice yelled, startling Harry. "You know…the red one with the stripes?"

"It's in the laundry," a female voice yelled in return, sounding further off than the man. "You wore it yesterday, Hun. Just wear the blue one."

"But it's my lucky tie," the male voice complained loudly. To Harry, it sound as if wherever the man wasn't all that far away.

"Do you two always have to yell in the mornings?" a peeved female voice entered the conversation, as a door wrenched open. The door slammed shut a second later and was followed by irritated muttering. Another door opened and slammed a bit further away, before the sound of a tap turning on drowned out the muttering.

Things quieted, though Harry could have sworn that he heard the man chuckle. As he sat straining his ears in hopes of gaining some sort of further insight into his situation, he reflected that the male voice had most likely been meant to have belonged to 'his father'. The second female voice he couldn't be certain of, but the first no doubt belonged to 'his mother'.

"A sister perhaps?" Harry wondered, furrowing his brow. Looking around what he supposed was supposed to be his bedroom, he caught sight of the various photos on the shelf to the right of the bed and bedside table. Taking care to get up slowly, he crossed over to the shelf and bent down to study the photos.

There were several different scenes captured within them. He recognized James and Lily Potter, Remus, Sirius, and a few others in the photos, like the Weasleys, the Longbottoms, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye Moody, and select other members from the Order of the Phoenix. He scowled, however, at a photo of Sirius with his arms wrapped around a woman that he didn't know. They appeared to be a couple and had three small children running around them with far too much energy. All three kids, two boys and a girl, looked strikingly like Sirius with his dark hair and all. Not a single one of them had the woman's golden locks, but one of the boys did have her dark eyes.

Tearing his eyes away from the photo of his godfather and what he assumed was meant to be his godfather's family, he set his sights on one of the many photos of the 'Potter Family', or so he assumed it was his family. He recognized 'his parents' easily enough, as well as himself. The girl, though, he didn't recognize. She was maybe a year or so younger than him. She had their father's black hair, as well as his eyes. Her face, however, was a reflection of their mother's soft features. In the photo, the girl wore her hair long with a few braids added to her ponytail, while several loose strands fell around and framed her cheekbones. She was beautiful – a perfect blend of their parents.

Harry shook his head of the direction his thoughts were going, before he could think much more on the girl. _Get a hold of yourself, _he reprimanded._ She's not really your sister. You never had a sister!_

Once again thinking objective about the situation, Harry decided that he should probably get dressed and at least attempt to figure out who his supposed sister, the woman that Sirius had his arm around, and the three twerps racing around Sirius and the woman, all three looking strangely like his godfather, were meant to be. He wasn't certain what his captors wanted from him, but he figured staying ahead of them and not getting caught unaware would be the best course of action for the time being, which meant that he needed to figure out who was who and what was what. With careful movements that wouldn't strain his aching body, he pushed himself up to stand and headed over to the wardrobe.

Upon opening the wardrobe, Harry immediately raised an eyebrow at his assumed fashion sense. The Harry that he was supposedly portraying didn't appear to own a single pair of jeans, nor did he own a t-shirt. As if that weren't bad enough, 'Harry' seemed to be a big fan of plaid…a really big, big fan of plaid and button up, restrictive looking shirts, along with some very strange looking robes. Resigning himself to what clothes were presented before him, he pulled down a pair of plain, tan trousers that looked comfortable enough and threw on one of the many pristine white undershirts. He didn't even bother with the plaid or the weird robes, before shutting the wardrobe. He had better things to worry about than plaid clothing.

Dressed for the day, Harry set his sights on the writing desk. It appeared to be the most likely place that he might find something that would tell him who his supposed sister, the woman, and the three kids were. Upon coming to stand before the desk, a flicker of surprise rushed through him at seeing a half-finished essay in what was distinctly his handwriting sitting out atop the desk. Without picking it up, he read the title of the essay. It was a transfigurations essay that McGonagall had assigned to third years at the end of each year. _So I'm supposed to be fourteen or am going to be turning fourteen soon,_ he mused.

Moving the essay aside, Harry set about looking through the rest of the possessions atop the desk and rummaging through the drawers of the desk, looking for old letters or anything else that might tell him a bit more about his situation. As he opened drawer after drawer and found more and more personal belongings, notes, and a general, disorganized mess, he couldn't believe how much of a boring, weakling the Harry that he was supposed to be portraying was. He had apparently written out an entire list of his fears. It looked to be an excise of some sort, causing Harry to wonder if he was supposedly seeing a Mind Healer. Judging from the long list of 'Harry's Fears', he most definitely needed to. He was apparently afraid of everything from loud and sudden noises to the dark and the forest to werewolves and dementors.

"Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Harry started and whipped around – dropping the list of 'Harry's Fears' in the process – as the door of his supposed bedroom flew open and hit the wall behind it with a loud bang. His instincts had him in a defensive stance, despite the ache that he felt throughout his body protesting his quick movements. Upon his gaze settling upon on a man standing in the open doorway, who had messy black hair and hazel eyes framed by gold rimmed glasses and who looked very much as James Potter should at 34 years of age, he blinked owlishly.

The smile that had been on the imposter's face, upon throwing open the door, disappeared and the man let out a disappointed sigh.

"Harry, we talked about this, remember?" James said, as he approached Harry with slow movements, as if he thought Harry was a wild animal that would surely bolt if given the chance.

Harry allowed the man to take him by the arm and guided him back over to the bed, finding it difficult to master the surge of anger that stir within him and not do something stupid that would most likely get him kill. He stiffened rigidly, as the imposter sat down next to him and pulled him into a hug. The embrace was firm, yet reassuring. He didn't like it. The thought of a Death Eater hugging him in such an intimate way, let alone close enough to hug him at all, made his skin crawl and his hand itch for the reassurance of a wand. The fact that it was a Death Eater disguised as his father made the entire situation all the worse.

"You were doing so well," James said despondently. "Did something happen?"

_Yes, something happen and you damn well know it, you bastard. You and your comrades have taken on the appearance of my parents and are quite blatantly attempting to fuck with my mind._ That, however, didn't seem like an appropriate answer to give considering his current vulnerability, so Harry elected to stay quiet. It wasn't like he knew what the imposter was referring to anyway.

"Do I need to call Healer Strauss?" James asked, releasing Harry from the hug and ducking down so that he could peer into Harry's eyes.

Harry felt unsettle, as the man looked at him pleadingly – the man's hazel eyes looking so desperate, as if the man wished nothing more than to understand what was going on inside his mind. _Yeah, you'd like a shot at using Legilimency on me, wouldn't you?_ Harry thought disdainfully, while keeping up a void expression and remaining quiet. _Too bad all you dimwits finally figure out that you wouldn't last two seconds inside my mind. It was so much more fun when you thought that you could just take what you wanted from me and get away with it._

The memory of Avery sitting with drool pouring from the side of his mouth, the Death Eater's mind completely shattered, flashed before Harry's eyes. Avery had been the first of many minds that he had ripped through and left in pieces. Voldemort had just been lucky that he had been just as good as Harry had become at the Mind Arts, otherwise the Dark Lord might have lost his mind to him as well when he had unwisely attempted to succeed where several of his Death Eaters had failed. It certainly would have made the war easier to fight, if he had been able to shatter Voldemort's mind. Unfortunately, after Voldemort's failed attempt to break into his mind and retrieve the prophecy, as well as other highly sensitive information about the Order of the Phoenix and various other fractions of the Resistance, word had spread of his and Voldemort's metal battle and of Voldemort being forced to throw Harry out of his mind in order to preserve his own sanity, after Harry had turned the mental pathway back on Voldemort like he had done to so many before. Very few had dared to meet Harry eyes ever since, ally or enemy alike. What 'James' was doing now was mighty brave of the man.

Harry had to keep a smirk off of his face, as he effortlessly slipped into the imposter's mind, or so he thought that he had succeed in doing so effortlessly. When he attempted to search out an objective, orders, anything that would tell him what his captors were after, he only found memories of James Potter. He saw the man as an Auror, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, a husband, a father, and so on. He pushed harder, not believing what he was seeing, only to find memories going all the way back to James Potter's supposed childhood. He pulled back the slightest bit, hesitating. It was impossible. No one could create such an elaborate and spanning network of false memories. Before he could think further on what he was seeing, the mental connection that he had established with his supposed father was violently broken and he was forcibly ejected back into his own mind.

Harry hadn't even regained his bearings, before he felt a rough hand grabbing him by the hair and painfully wrenching his head back. The next second, a wand was digging into his throat and James Potter was towering over him.

"Who are you?" James demanded, his voice surging with anger.

Harry looked up at the man, while silently cursing himself for assuming that James wouldn't notice his intrusion. It had been awhile since he had last invaded another's mind and even longer since he invaded such an unprotected mind. He had been careless, thinking that he had free reign since he had been met with little to no resistance. He really should have known better than to push without taking proper precautions to hide his presence, unprotected mind or not.

"Where's Harry?" James pulled Harry's hair roughly and dug his wand deeper into the flesh of Harry's exposed neck, clearly losing patience fast.

Yet, Harry could only continue to stare up at the man, still finding it impossible to believe what he had seen in the man's mind. No one, absolutely no one, could create a false memory network that spanned an entire lifetime. He knew, as he had grown over the last eight years to become one of the most proficient practitioners of the Mind Arts to live in the last century and even he hadn't managed to create anything close to resembling even a small network of false memories. To span a lifetime just wasn't feasible. _If the memories can't be false, that means they have to be real,_ the unbidden thought surfaced at the forefront of his mind. However, despite desperately wanting to believe that what he had seen in the man's mind was indeed real, the implications, if the memories were real, were even more impossible and unbelievable than if they weren't real.

His father was dead! His mother was dead! He didn't have a sister!

"Where is my son?" James asked in a low, threatening tone that promised unimaginable pain, if he did not get answers soon. Harry actually flinched, as the words cut through him. They sounded very much like the words of a father concerned for his son, a father ready to do anything necessary to ensure the safety of his own flesh and blood. "Where is he?" James asked even more forcefully, his gripping tightening in preparation on his wand.

"Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Come on! Wake up!" Harry repeated to himself under his breath, closing his eyes and attempting to shut out the world – his furious, supposed father in particular. He was having a nightmare. There was no way anyone could build such a complex network of false memories and no way his father could be alive and standing over him, which meant that it could only be a nightmare. He needed to wake up, and he needed to wake up now! "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Come on! Wake up! Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up! Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Come on! Wake up!"


	2. Rapport

**Chapter 2 – Rapport**

Harry felt the beginnings of the curse stir within the wand press against his throat, before he even heard the first syllable of the curse leave his supposed father's lips. He reacted on pure instinct, instinct driven by over two decades of fending for his life. Though he was weaker and scrawnier than he had been in years and his body ached with an ever present pain, he pushed himself into action. Nightmare or something wholly different, he'd be damned if he would sit still and allow himself to be cursed.

His attack was swift. One second James Potter was towering over him, the next he had a hold of the man's wand arm and was ripping the man's wand away from him. The curse that was meant for him went crashing into the bedside table and toppled the teetering stack of fiction novels to the floor. Utilizing his entire body and the speed and surprise of his attack to his advantage, he wasted no time in roughly yanking James down towards him, while simultaneously rising to his feet and forcibly flipping the man down against the mattress. The momentum of the maneuver had James landing on his back on the bed with a heavy thud and an exclamation of alarm. Before James could fully process the change in position, he scrambled atop the man and went for the man's wand. There was a brief struggle between them, where he ended up elbowed in the face and took a knee to the gut, before he finally wrestled the wand out of the man's grip.

"Don't move," Harry said roughly, upon his victory, and leveled the stolen wand at the man's face.

James stilled, his breathing somewhat ragged from the fight. His hazel eyes glared up at Harry with unadulterated hatred, as he looked down the end of his own wand to the face of his son and zeroed in on the forming bruise and cut lip that he had caused.

For a tense moment, the two simply stared at each other. However, hurried movement out in the hall quickly alerted Harry to just how precarious his situation remained. Despite now being in possession of a wand, the burst of adrenaline that had surged through him at the start of his attack was waning and his body's weakness was once again threatening to claim him. He shook with the aftermath of the attack, fresh bouts of pain searing his muscles and bones and coursing white hot through his veins. There would be no way that he'd be able to duel his way out.

_Petrificus Totalus!_ Harry thought with some difficultly, deciding to not even give James the option of moving, and turned his attention towards the still open door. With a few flicks of the wand in his hand, the door slammed shut on those advancing towards the bedroom and sealed closed with the most powerful locking spell that he knew. Another few flicks and the bedroom was warded against all forms of outside intrusion.

Confident that the wards would hold for the moment, Harry returned his attention to man lying frozen beneath him. James's eyes were narrowed into slits, as the man continued to glare up him – the man's eyes accessing and roving over him critically. It was plain to see that James was calculating his weaknesses, meaning that the man was no doubt aware that he had been physically weakened by their altercation. He didn't doubt that James could feel the tremors wracking his body. It wasn't something that he could hide.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just need time to think," Harry said, though he did not understand why he even felt the need to give reassurances to the man. The man had just tried to curse him after all. Others had paid with their life for attempting the same.

Without moving from James, Harry allowed himself a brief moment to close his eyes and focus his mind towards reapplying Occlumency against the pain afflicting him. As the pain lessened somewhat, he reluctantly reopened his eyes. With slow and careful movements, he pushed himself up off of James. He stumbled, backing away from the bed on still shaky legs. He only made it a few paces towards the desk, before he was forced to settle himself on the floor, resting against the bookcase to his left.

_Ugh!_ Harry thought silently, as his eyes drifted back closed and he rested his head back against the bookcase behind him. Despite employing Occlumency against the pain, he still felt as though he had suffered the Cruciatus Curse ten times over. He could only hope that the pain would recede as it had before. He hadn't felt so weak and disoriented since escaping Riddle's dungeons three years ago, upon which he had made it a point to never allow himself to reach such a vulnerable state ever again. _Surely, this has got to be a nightmare,_ he thought fiercely, simply unable and unwilling to believe it to be anything else.

As the minutes passed and his body calmed, the pain tormenting him slowly ebbed and dulled to a manageable thrum. With clear and logical thought returning to him, Harry set his mind to analyzing his current situation. While he did indeed recognize that he was having a nightmare, he had yet to wake from it like he had on previous occasions, where he recognized a nightmare for the dream that it was, instead the reality it portrayed itself to be.

_What if I can't wake up?_ The horrifying thought hit him with crashing force, as he concluded that he had no way of knowing how many floors he might have fallen, after being hit with whatever spell it was that he had been hit with. For all he knew, he might very well be in St. Mungo's at the moment, locked within a coma.

The idea of being trapped within his own mind caused Harry to scowl with annoyance. He opened his eyes and looked to the nightmare version of James Potter, who was lying stiff as a board on the bed. He knew one thing, if he was to be stuck within a dream, he wasn't going to sit around and torture himself with what-if's and could-have-been's. He knew a whole hell of a lot about the mind and what it took to warp reality within one's own mind. All it would take was a single thought from him for the dream to change, and change it he would. He had had enough of this particular nightmare, coma or not.

Casting a glance around the room, Harry filled his mind with the image of the Gryffindor Common Room, which had been his mental safe haven since his Hogwarts days. His eyes drifted closed, as he recalled the round, stone walls draped in bright red banners, the plush, red armchairs, and the warm, crackling fire that had constantly burned within the great hearth at the far side of the room. He imagined breathing in the scent of oak and once again feeling the homey atmosphere that had always greeted him, upon stepping through the portrait hole. With the image vivid and nearly tangible within his mind, he once more opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the Gryffindor Common Room around him.

"No!" Harry said, his protest barely heard by his own ears, as he took in blue walls and wood floors of the bedroom with building panic. Nothing had changed! He was still sitting against a bookcase filled with beginner magical theory texts and fiction novels. James Potter was still lying rigid on the twin sized bed in the corner of the room. The wards that he had set were still active and holding off an onslaught of spells, as those outside the room attempted to break in.

If he hadn't had so much experience with the finer intricacies of the mind, Harry might have been inclined to believe that he simply hadn't concentrated hard enough on what he wanted or had to say or do something to initiate the change. Thinking that he had simply done it wrong, he might have attempted again, maybe even a third time, to change the setting of his 'dream'. However, he was more than acquainted with the finer intricacies of the mind, and he knew that in a dream, the dreamer was the master and creator of everything that they experience. The dreamer had complete and total control to the point that it did not take great concentration or skill to cause change, even a fleeting thought could warp the dream and make it become something wholly different. He knew without a shred of doubt that his attempt to place himself within the setting of the Gryffindor Common Room had not failed because he did not put in the proper effort to bring about the change. His attempt had failed because he wasn't in a dream. He wasn't inside his mind.

"No, no, no, no, no," Harry said in refusal and ungracefully pushed himself up off the floor to stand; though he was still in pain, his stance was stronger than it had been a few minutes prior. As he stared blank faced at his surroundings, his mind screamed one long _NOOO!_ in denial of what he was seeing_, _utterly unable to handle the implications of what he had thought to be a nightmare not being a nightmare.

_This can't be real. This cannot be real. _Harry chanted inside his mind whilst scanning the bedroom with wide, frantic eyes. Everything from the writing desk stacked with third year textbooks and an unfinished transfiguration essay to the wardrobe filled with plaid shirts and wonky robes to James _fucking_ Potter lying on the bed in the corner of the room took on a whole new meaning. None of it was an invention of his mind, which meant that all of it had to be, in some impossible way, real. Despite every protest and every denial and the fact it made his head spin, everything around him and everything that he had experienced in the last half-hour had been and was real.

Harry let out a slow breath, attempting to calm himself. Allowing his panic to rule him, he knew, would get him nowhere. _Right, rational thinking, _he thought firmly. _Okay, fact: I'm not trapped within a nightmare. Additional fact: I'm not being held captive by Death Eaters or an unknown party of similar ill intent, as the James Potter before me is just as much a version of James Potter as my dad ever was. So, if I'm not dreaming and this isn't some Death Eater trick…_

Harry frowned down at his scrawny frame, his too small hands in particular. It would seem that he hadn't just 'supposedly' stepped into another Harry's life, as he had thought. He had quite literally stepped into the life of a teenage version of himself, a version that – while a bit messed up and, for all appearance, wholly different from himself – was deeply loved by his father and had an entire family with his mother and Sirius and all.

_An alternate life…? _Harry looked to the living version of his father. _Or rather an alternate timeline…possibly one where Voldemort didn't attack us on Halloween?_ His hand once again went to his forehead and felt the unblemished skin where his lightning bolt scar should have been. _Would that mean that Voldemort chose Neville instead?_

Harry's eyes snapped to the photos that he had been looking at earlier. His gaze zeroed in on a group photo that looked to have been taken at a picnic of some sort. Neville was in the photo with his parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom. Moving slowly, as to not cause himself any more pain than necessary, he crossed over to the shelf and bent down before the photo. In it, Frank was dressed in shorts and a cotton shirt, while Alice was dressed in a pink sundress with her black locks dangling in curls atop her shoulders. Both appeared to be of intact mind and perfectly healthy. They smiled brightly at the camera, waving. The boy between them, standing slightly to the front, was recognizable enough as Neville. Though the boy was nowhere near as portly as he remembered his Neville being at that age, the boy still had Alice's round face and Frank's blond hair.

"Oh, Neville…" Harry gave a despairing sigh, his eyes fixed upon the lightning bolt scar marring the boy's forehead. From the moment that he had heard the Prophecy seven years ago, he had known with absolute conviction that he would never wish his fate upon any other. To see this alternate Neville marked with the cursed scar that had made his life hell filled him with dread for the boy.

Harry tore his eyes away from the photo and looked to James, fingering the man's wand still clutched within his hand. He could feel his time running out. While his wards remained strong for now, someone on the outside was sure to recognize the warding pattern that he had used soon enough. After all, there were only so many ways to layer wards in a hurry, and whoever was trying to bring down his wards had already exhausted several options. _Ten more minutes, tops,_ he thought with frustration, knowing that he could weave another layer into the wards that would buy him more time, but also knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide behind his wards indefinitely.

Harry stood, deciding to make the most of the time that he had left. He had a somewhat grasp on his situation, but obtaining further information wouldn't be remiss. With the wand that he had stolen trained on James, he dismissed the thought of simply taking the information that he wanted from the man's mind. James, as it would seem, was a civilian…in relative terms. Not to mention, the man was pointedly looking away from him and most likely wouldn't make willing eye contact with him anytime soon, which meant that to enter the man's mind a second time, he would have to do so by force. _A standard interrogation it is then, _Harry thought, taking a few step towards the bed_._ James showed no indication of noticing his approach. In fact, the man remained oddly calm.

"I'm going to release the curse," Harry said, upon stopping at what he thought to be a close, yet still safe distance from James. Getting no response, he turned and summoned the straight backed, wooden chair from its place at the desk. He sat down on the chair with his hands resting visibly on his knees. "James, I'd really like for the following conversation to be conducted in a civil manner without further violence between us," he told the man, while watching the man's diverted eyes for any sort of reaction to his words. Seeing none, he pressed onward with what he had come to consider standard protocol for an interrogation, when dealing with a 'friendly' rather than an enemy. "However, I warn you now that I'm not someone to mess with. Should you chose to force my hand, I will defend myself, albeit reluctantly. Blink twice, if you understand that ill will on my part will only be incited by actions of ill will on your part."

Though the man kept his eyes averted, James blinked twice.

_Finite!_ Harry thought, aiming the counter-curse at the man. Upon the curse lifting, he returned his hand, still clutching the wand firmly, to his knee and settled to wait for James to come around fully.

James roused from the curse with slow, cautious movements. Looking anywhere but directly at Harry, the man stretched his stiff limbs and hastily corrected his glasses. He sat up and adjusted his awkward position so that he was facing Harry, before fixing his eyes upon a spot just to the right of Harry's head and placing his hands on his knees in mirror of Harry. He gave a subtle nod, silently indicating for Harry to proceed and that he would comply.

"What is the date – day, month, year, if you will?" Harry asked, watching the man for signs of false pacification.

"It's the 2nd of July. The year is 1994," James said plainly.

"Is Voldemort active?" Harry asked, keeping his voice detached and letting no emotion show on his face.

"No, and he hasn't been for nearly 13 years," James said, his face blank of emotion as well and his voice just as detached as Harry's.

Harry nodded, grateful to know that he wouldn't have to worry about Voldemort on top of everything else. He currently had enough to worry about as it was.

"How old are you?" James asked abruptly, giving Harry pause, as he hadn't expected the question.

"I'm…I'm 23," Harry said, after taking a moment to consider the question and what he would be agreeing to by answering it truthfully. While it was common practice for an interrogation to remain one sided and for it to be purposefully kept one sided, the Order of the Phoenix had often deemed it more beneficial, when dealing with potential allies, to initiate an exchange of truths. James asking him a question, despite him being the one in charge of the interrogation, was a clear sign that the man was willing to enter what was referred to informally by a majority of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, as a Game of Truths.

"Did Sirius end up with the Black Estate, upon Walburga's death?" Harry asked swiftly. If things went as they usually did with this style of interrogation, the exchange would be rapid, as they both now had incentive to answer the given question as soon as asked, so that they could ask their own question in return.

"Yes," James answered promptly. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"A fellow mercenary and I were in pursuit of an enemy combatant," Harry said with hesitation, having been prepared for a return question this time. "Is 12 Grimmauld Place under any protections other than the ones that Orion Black left upon it?"

"Not that I am aware of. Who were you pursuing?"

"A Death Eater by the name of Draco Malfoy."

James's eyes flicked to Harry in recognition, before immediately looking away again.

"Does Sirius or anyone else live at Grimmauld Place?" Harry asked.

"No. Why are so interested in Grimmauld Place?"

"The Black Library is quite extensive. Has the Chamber of Secrets within Hogwarts been opened in recent history?"

"Over a year ago." James nodded. "Earlier, when you were inside my mind, what were you looking for?"

"A directive. Was a diary recovered from the incident?"

"I couldn't say. All I know about the incident is that the attacks stopped halfway through the school year. What sort of directive were you looking for?"

"I thought you were an imposter. I was attempting to assess what your orders were and the extent of how much danger I was in. Is the Triwizard Tournament being held at Hogwarts this year?"

"Yes." James frowned. "Do you often find yourself amongst imposters?"

"More often than I like and probably more often than I think. Is Alastor Moody teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year?"

"The post is yet to be filled. Do you know where you are?"

"No," Harry said reluctantly, not really wanting to admit to James that the man had the upper hand concerning their location, yet unwilling to lie and break the rapport between them. "Where am I?"

"My family's cottage in Godric's Hollow," James said, his lips quirking the slightest bit in acknowledgement of the playing field being leveled once more. "Who trained you in the Mind Arts?"

"Albus Dumbledore taught me the basics. The rest I taught myself. Did you ever place your home under the Fidelius Charm?"

"Yes." James's lips pulled into a thin line. "How old were you, when you first began learning the Mind Arts?"

"Fifteen. Who was your Secret Keeper?"

"Sirius Black. Why did Albus elect to teach a fifteen year old a branch of highly complicated, borderline dark magic?"

"At the time, it was essential to my health and to the safety of those around me that I learn," Harry said, despite still reeling from the revelation that Sirius _had _been Secret Keeper for the Potters of this timeline. He would have to think on the implications later. "Did you ever consider switching Secret Keepers?"

"No. What year were you born?"

"1980. Does the public believe Voldemort to be dead?"

"Yes. Is my family significant to you in some way?"

"Sort of," Harry said cautiously. "Was Neville the one to vanquish Voldemort?"

"Yes and no. Did you attend Hogwarts?"

"Yes. What do you mean by yes and no?"

"Augusta Longbottom willing gave her life for Neville, providing Neville with a strong protection. Voldemort's curse rebounded off of the protection, when he attempted to kill Neville, and killed him instead. Where do you live?"

"London." _12 Grimmauld Place to be specific,_ Harry added mentally. "Was there a prophecy made that predicts Voldemort's defeat?"

"Yes," James said somewhat hesitantly. "What do you know of it?"

"The exact wording, yet possibly next nothing at all," Harry said, after taking a second to carefully considering his answer. "Was the Philosopher's Stone housed within Hogwarts the 1991-1992 school year?"

"I don't believe so. How did you come to know the wording of the prophecy?"

"Albus Dumbledore shared the prophecy's full contents with me, after I lost someone dear to me in an attempt to protect it. Did one Quirinus Quirrell ever teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts?"

"No, though he did teach Muggle Studies at one point in time. Who did you lose in protecting the prophecy?"

"My godfather. Has anyone attempted to break into Gringotts within the last decade?"

"A few years ago." James nodded. "How close of a relationship do you have to Albus?"

"I'd say that he viewed me as a cross between a surrogate grandson and a means to an end. Was the perpetrator caught?"

"No. Why did you choose the life of a mercenary?"

"I didn't choose it. It chose me. Did the perpetrator manage to steal anything?"

"No. The vault had been emptied earlier in the week. How old were you, when you became a mercenary?"

"11, essentially, though I didn't start getting paid until I was 19. Are you still friends with Peter Pettigrew?"

"No." James lowered his eyes to the floor, sadness and remorse plainly visible on his face. "Have you've killed someone in full knowledge that your actions would result in the other person's death?"

"Yes." Harry said detachedly, while wondering at the man's reaction to his question about Pettigrew. "Have you?"

James briefly looked up at Harry, before quickly looking away again. A tense moment passed between them. "With great regret afterwards, yes, I have. How old were you the first time you knowingly took a life?"

"11, in self-defense." Harry wetted his lips in anticipation of the answer to his next question. "Why aren't you friends with Pettigrew?"

"It's difficult to remain friends with a dead man." James's eyes harden behind his glasses, a clear warning to drop the subject. "Where were your parents, when you were forced to kill at the age of eleven?"

"Dead. Was Barty Crouch Jr. ever convicted of being a Death Eater?"

"Yes. How is my family significant to you?"

"Pass, ask a different question," Harry said. He wasn't ready to give his name just yet. Not to mention, he didn't think James was ready to know who he was just yet either.

"No," James said firmly.

"Ask a dif–" Harry cut himself off, feeling a sudden flare in his wards.

"You were saying?" James looked to Harry knowingly. Harry didn't doubt that the man had been counting the minutes remaining on his ward as well.

Harry ignored the question, instead focusing on coming up with plan of action. He had maybe a minute, more likely seconds left, before his wards ended up completely ripped to shreds.

"I can help you," James said seriously.

"Doubt it," Harry muttered, while racking his brain for how best to approach the coming confrontation. _Resisting would probably be a bad idea, _he thought, despite not liking the alternative of submission. However, in his current state, he didn't have a whole hell of a lot of options. It would be resist or surrender, and he was fairly certain that both would end with the same result: him captured at wand point.

"Harry, return my wand, and I'll do my best to help you," James said, holding out his hand expectantly and actually looking at Harry.

"I'm not your son." Harry shook his head dismissively, while debating whether the window was a feasible escape route. As he apparently wasn't being held captive, there most likely wouldn't be any wards to prevent him from using it as an exit, though it remained debatable whether he would be able to get out the window and down to the ground quick enough to avoid capture. He doubted it, considering his current weakened state.

"Maybe not," James said. His choice of words and the way that he said them gave Harry pause and caused him to look to the man and actually give the man his attention.

As Harry took in James's beseeching expression, he picked up on a flicker of something in the man's eyes that suggested that the man knew more than he was letting on. As James continued to hold his gaze, he couldn't help but wonder what exact it was that the man thought that he knew. With such freely given eye contact, he was sorely tempted to find out. However, entering James's mind without permission a second time seemed an unwise move on his part.

"Just trust me, all right? Trust me that I can and will help you," James spoke softly, his hand still held out expectantly and sincerity practically radiating off of him, just begging Harry to trust him.

Harry surveyed James critically whilst thinking that the man definitely had practice at gaining people's trust. _He wouldn't have initiated a Game of Truths, if he hadn't, _he realized belatedly and, as he looked into the man's hazel eyes, he realized that he could already feel a tentative bond of trust between them, one that had been cultivated with each truth that they had just exchanged. Slowly, deciding that if he were to surrender to anyone it would be to James, he lent forward and placed the wand in the man's open hand.

"Thank you."

The words had no more than crossed James's lips, when Harry's wards shattered and the bedroom door flew open with a bang.


	3. To Proceed

** Chapter 3 – To Proceed**

Harry had expected to be immediately stunned or, perhaps, be placed in a Full Body-Bind or be affixed with magical restraints. Seeing as James had his wand back and the cavalry had arrived, it was only logical to assume that he would be swiftly subdued. He was therefore surprised when James held up his hand in an unmistakable gesture for those outside the bedroom to remain where they were. As the man's eyes looked deep into his own, looking at him with warning, yet without hostility, the message was clear. The tables may now be turned, but their previous agreement remained. James would not attack him without provocation, and it was expected that he would abide by the same.

"James, everything all right?" a voice that Harry recognized all too well asked tentatively, causing James to look away from him and to the open doorway.

James opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated, conflict showing in his eyes. He looked back to Harry, as whatever he had intended to say died on his lips.

"James?" a female voice that Harry had heard earlier and had assumed belonged to Lily Potter asked concernedly.

"Could you give us a minute?" James asked decisively. Though he was still looking at Harry, it was more than apparent that it wasn't Harry whom he was speaking to.

There was a stretch of silence, before Harry heard a shuffle of movement and the door reclose behind him. James wasted no time in setting a rudimentary set of wards over the room – most notably, a sound suppression ward.

"How is my family significant to you?" James asked, his tone suggesting that refusing to answer the question a third time would not be an option.

"I'm not your son," Harry said, repeating his previous statement. It wasn't the answer James wanted, but it was the truth. He did not know what James knew – or rather what the man thought that he knew – but the man had called him Harry. If there was one thing that hedid know, it was that he wasn't anything like the man's son. He wasn't 'Harry'.

"Would you please just answer the question?" James pinned Harry with a contemptuous look, frustration marring his brow.

Harry pressed his lips together pensively, surveying James. In truth, he wasn't particularly fond of finding out what the man's reaction would be upon him admitting that he was Harry James Potter, the son of James and Lily Potter, only that he was Harry James Potter, the son of a James and Lily Potter of an alternate timeline, which would ultimately reveal that he was Harry James Potter, the son of a James and Lily Potter from a timeline where he had grown up to be become known across Europe as the Gray Lord, referred to in whispers as the Basilisk, and had renamed himself to reflect the chosen name of his enemy. Porteur Demort had become just as much his name in the last five years as his given name had ever been and had become just as feared by his opposition, as Voldemort's name had been feared by all on all fronts of the war.

"Listen," Harry said, the word coming out slow and measured, "who I am and how your family is significant to me doesn't really matter. All that matters is that this," he gestured to himself, "is reversed."

James's eyes narrowed and his features hardened. When he spoke, his tone was sharp and unrelenting. "When my son was seven, he woke from a nightmare screaming about a man with a face coming out of the back of his head. When he was nearly eight, he woke screaming and exclaimed that a giant snake had tried to eat him. Not long after, he described several nightmares involving cold, cloaked things and went through a phase where he would have nothing to do with Sirius. That is, until one day in early February, when he ran up and hugged Sirius only to turn around and accused Peter of being a traitor. At the time, we all simply believed it to be the result of another one of his nightmares. A week went by with him throwing fits left and right, insisting that we listen and that Peter was working for the Bad Man. Maybe if I…" James shook his head, scowling.

"Things only got progressively worse in the following year," James pressed on. "The nightmares became more frequent – a man being struck down by a green light, a dragon chasing him on a broom, mermaids holding his friends hostage, a boy who he had been competing against in a tournament dying, along with a ritual of some kind and a man with a snake like face emerging from a boiling cauldron. It was a little after he had turned nine, when he woke exclaiming once more about cold, cloaked things and, of all things, his cousin Dudley. Then one night, a month or so after Christmas that year, he had a nightmare that Sirius had died. He wouldn't talk about it, but he was so distraught after that that he wouldn't eat or sleep or do anything. Despite Sirius being right in front of him and assuring him that he was very much alive, he remained convinced that Sirius was dead."

Harry swallowed thickly. All of this was hitting just a bit too close to home.

"We ended up hospitalizing Harry in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's." James's tone softened a bit, upon noting that his words were indeed having an effect on Harry. Though, he did not slow in his speech, clearly aiming to make a point. "They kept Harry there for a year, doing all sorts of test and giving him all sorts of potions. None of it helped. By the time that he was finally released, the healers had gotten him to understand that the nightmares were dreams and that they were separate from his reality, but that was about it. The nightmares continued, turning well and truly violent. When he was eleven, we reluctantly allowed him to attend Hogwarts, hoping that a bit of normalcy and being around kids his own age might help him. However, after a particularly bad nightmare a little over halfway through his first year, he went mute and we were forced to pull him out. He spent the rest of what would have been his first year back in the Janus Thickey Ward."

"Thankfully, with time and treatment, he got better. By his twelfth birthday, he was speaking again and seemed happy enough. He was never quite the same though. There was wariness in his eyes that shouldn't have been there, and he was jumpy – more so than he had been since the nightmares started. By the time that September rolled around, he said that he wanted to give Hogwarts another go. We kept him home, not wanting to risk a relapse. With the Chamber of Secrets opening that year, we were grateful that we had."

"When the time came for him to start his third year, he once again begged us to let him return to Hogwarts. Bethany was starting her first year and over the previous year, despite his nightmares being worse than ever, he had been handling them much better. We agreed to let him go, and he seemed to do well." James gave a weary sigh and shook his head. "A month or so ago, he had a particularly disturbing nightmare. He seemed please about it, but had also been very shaken by it. He asked to come home and to be allowed to take his end of the year exams sometime this summer, after he had time to get over what had happen. Over the last week, he had been doing remarkably well. It was almost as if he were just a regular boy."

"So, I think you can understand why I'm a little more than interested in who you are and why my family, particularly my son, is significant to you," James finished with a pointed look.

Harry could only stare at the man, his mind reeling with the implication of what he had just been told. He had no clue as to how it was possible, but from what James had described, it seemed that the Harry of this timeline had been dreaming, or rather had been having nightmares, of his timeline, his life in specific. James had describe events from his first, second, third, forth, and fifth years at Hogwarts and had alluded to the much darker years that had followed.

Harry ran a stressed hand through his hair. He didn't even want to contemplate which events of his past his counterpart might have witnessed. _Well and truly violent._ Harry scoffed. That was putting things mildly. The last six years of his life had been a bloody massacre – a dark, hopeless, and desolate period in wizarding history for all of Europe. It was no wonder that the boy was afraid of nearly every little thing. While he had lived it and had been forced to face what was happening around him and deal with the things he was experiencing, the kid only knew the horrors of his nightmares and had no doubt been haunted by the images that filled his mind at night.

"Some of the questions that you asked and some of the answers that you gave…" James trailed off meaningfully.

"You believe that I'm the one he dreams of," Harry said, finally understanding what James thought he knew.

"Are you?" James asked bluntly.

Harry gave a short nod. There was no sense in denying it. Whatever fucked up magic was at work, he was, as per usual, at the center of it. He didn't know why or how the man's son had been dreaming of him, but he didn't doubt that it was true or that he was indeed the one that Harry had been dreaming of.

"At first, he spoke of you, as if you and he were one and the same. After we admitted him to St. Mungo's the first time, he began to differentiate between the two of you and began referring to you as Harry. Though…" James hesitated, looking a bit leery. "Though after a time, he began referring to you as Harry and Porteur interchangeably and, eventually, settled on referring to you as Porteur. Healer Strauss is concerned that he is slowly developing a Dissociative Identity Disorder of some sort, in order to deal with the dreams. He believes that one day Porteur will bleed out from his dreams and enter into his reality."

"But you don't believe that." Harry could see it in the man's eyes. James didn't believe for a second that his son was crazy.

"Harry doesn't attempt to disassociate from his dreams." James grimaced. "If anything, his dreams are all too real to him and he embraces them as such. He tells Lily and the healers that he knows that his dreams aren't real and that they are only dreams, so that they will leave him alone, but a number of times, when just him and I have talked about his nightmares, he has looked me in the eye and told me that you are real and that the world you live in is real. He says it with such conviction that I'm hard pressed not to believe him."

"Well, as far as I know, I am real and where I come from is real," Harry said, beginning to feel completely overwhelmed by the entire situation. He was far out of his depth on this one – far, far out of his depth. If it had been a simple matter of locating the curse that Draco had hit him with and finding a counter-curse to reverse the effects, he would have been just fine. However, with what James had revealed to him, he was beginning to get the impression that things were far more complicated than a curse and its counter-curse. Not to mention, there was the very big issue that he had no clue where the Harry that belonged to the body that he was current residing within was. It was logical to assume that since he had taken up residence within his counterpart's body, Harry had taken up residence within _his_ body; which was a less than comforting thought, as his body had been in mortal peril when he left it.

_He'll hate me, _Harry thought despondently, as he looked to James, who was regarding him speculatively in return. _If Harry died because I came here and Harry ended up where I should be, he will hate me. Fuck if I haven't already told enough parents that their son is dead. _

Harry lowered his eyes to floor, letting out a shaky breath of air that he hadn't realize he'd been holding, and leaned forward in his chair, bracing his hands in the hair and digging his elbows into his knees. He felt queasy at the thought of what might have happened to his counterpart. It was highly likely that Draco's curse or the fall or the damn unstable building itself might have done his counterpart in within seconds of them switching bodies – if that _was_ what had happened. Bile threatened to rise in his throat at the thought that an innocent boy, who had apparently already suffered enough because of him, had traded place with him in death – that by some messed up twist of fate, he had yet again survived when he shouldn't have with someone else, yet again, paying the required price.

Harry heard James get up from the bed, but did not look up at the man. Instead, he kept his eyes trained stubbornly on the floor, as James closed the distance between them and came to kneel before him. The man's hand settling upon his shoulder startled him, causing him to tense reflexively.

A moment of silence passed between them with James not removing his hand. Harry slowly forced himself to relax, recognizing the gesture as a supportive one. As the tension left his body, James gave his shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze.

"This is a … difficult situation," James said, his voice soft. "I realize that it's not every day that you wake up and find yourself in a place … a world that is unrecognizable and not at all your own. I can only imagine how upsetting this must be for you. However, in order to resolve the situation, I … we need remain objective."

As James spoke, Harry realized just how much of an Auror the man was. The man's son was missing, yet James was able to keep a level head and recognized the importance of ensuring that those around him kept a level head as well. Not only that, the man was skilled at asserting calm. The hand on his shoulder, the lowering of the man's voice, as if the man was speaking to only him; both gestures were techniques for breaking through turmoil and establishing a grounding connection that would aid a person in calming down and returning to rational thought. The man's professionalism was the mark of a skilled Auror, one who had extensive experience with extreme situations.

_Only, he doesn't realize how extreme the situation might be,_ Harry thought solemnly, as he looked to James. Though nothing was certain, he had a gut feeling that there would be no easy way to reverse what had been done. _If what has been done can be reversed at all._ Harry scowled at the thought. If his body died and counterpart died along with it, then there would be no way of reversing the effects. The swap would be permanent. He really didn't even want to begin to think about it, considering that it would mean that an innocent boy was dead and he would stuck in this timeline with a war to worry about fighting once more.

Harry scrubbed his hand over his face, while focusing on clearing his mind of such thoughts. He needed to focus on the here and now, he knew. He needed to apply his mind towards finding a way to reverse what had been done. He had already fought and won his war, had promises to fulfill and an entire continent to help rebuild, had some very important appointments that he needed to keep in the coming week, ones that would determine the fate of several nations; he needed to get back home to his timeline. _This could not have happen at a more inopportune time, _Harry thought irritably, as he considered all that he needed to do back in his own timeline.

Reluctantly, Harry dropped his hands from his face and raised his head, meeting James's concerned gaze. He straightened, shrugging the man's hand off his shoulder and drawing himself up to his full height. His days of wallowing in self-pity and fretting over things that he could not change had been long over. 'There is only the future and what one does with it.' That was the mantra that he had come to live by, the one that got him through one hellacious day to the next.

"Auror Potter, allow me to properly introduce myself," Harry said, an indifferent mask set upon his face. "I am Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, the Gray Lord of Europe – self-named as Porteur Demort." Ignoring the way James's eyes widened at the confirmation of his identity, only to narrow upon the revelation of his status as a Gray Lord, he pushed onward. "I _am_ 23 years old, born in 1980, making the year where I am from 2003 – the exact date being 6 September 2003. I am not your son, as both my parents were murdered when I was but a year old. I ask that you respect that."

"Of course…" James trailed off, clearly uncertain of how Harry wished to be addressed.

"I've always preferred to be called Harry, but no one has actually called me by my birth name in years," Harry said neutrally, surveying the man. "If you wish, in order to differentiate between myself and your son, you may call me Porteur…or simply Demort, if you desire something less personal."

"Not Lord Demort?" James asked, his voice carrying a slight edge and his eyes flashing with derision. His disapproval couldn't be any more clear.

Harry refrained from sneering. "The people of Europe proclaimed me to be the Gray Lord, just as they accepted Voldemort as the dark lord that he proclaimed _himself_ to be," Harry said, keeping his tone even and his face impassive. "However, I've never seen any reason to allow the title to become my name. Unlike Voldemort, I did not need a grandiose moniker for my reputation to spread. Long before I was made the Gray Lord of Europe, Porteur Demort was known from the Norwegian Sea down to the Mediterranean, from the Atlantic Ocean east to beyond the western border of Mother Russia. The Gray Lord is but a title, Auror Potter, not my name."

"Very well…Porteur," James said somewhat stiffly, after taking a moment to consider what Harry had said. He didn't seem any happier about the revelation.

"While I would ideally like to retire to Grimmauld Place and begin researching how to undo what has been done, I imagine that that would be unacceptable." Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, hoping to get past their differences regarding what magics ought to and ought not be used as quickly as possible and move on to finding a way to return him to his own timeline. However, he knew better than to think that James would simply allow him to do as he pleased. He was an unknown entity, after all, and he was sure that the man most likely had his own ideas on how to proceed.

James shook his head, just has Harry thought he would. "I'd rather that you allow Mayra to have a look at you, before we decide on anything." His eyes cut to the left corner of Harry's mouth.

Harry frowned and reached up to touch the spot that James's gaze had fixed upon. He grimaced, feeling the tender flesh and dried blood where James had elbowed him during their tussle.

"You looked to be in some pretty intense pain earlier as well," James said with a grimace of his own.

"Traversing time and space apparently isn't as pleasant as it sounds," Harry said dryly, giving James a contemptuous look.

"Sarcasm does not suit you," James dead panned, his face stoic. It was obviously that he was attempting to remove his emotions from the situation, but was struggling to do so. "Will you allow Mayra to have a look at you?"

"Who's Mayra?" Harry asked. He had never known or even heard of a Mayra.

Surprise flitted across James's face. "Mayra is Sirius's wife. She works as a healer at St. Mungo's."

Despite the situation, Harry grinned at the confirmation of his earlier suspicions. To hear that the Sirius of this timeline had indeed gotten married and had settled down to a family life was bittersweet news to hear. _At least he found happiness somewhere, _he thought fondly of his godfather.

"I take it Sirius wasn't married to Mayra where you're from?" James asked, his eyes revealing his curiosity.

"No." Harry sighed. "He … he never married."

"Oh," James said, a pensive look overtaking his face.

"Will you tell Mayra who I am?" Harry asked, getting them back on topic before James could ask anything more about Sirius.

"I had planned on it." James nodded.

"I'd rather you didn't. I'd rather you told no one except, perhaps, your wife." Harry look to the man with gravity. He had no interest in wasting time answering a curious healer's questions, or any other outsider's questions for that matter. At the moment, as far as he was concerned, he had a single objective. "I don't know how I came to be here, but I'd prefer if my presence was not share with those who do not necessarily need to know that I'm not your son. We don't need a case study being made about me concerning Time-Space Travel and the Greater Mysteries of the Universe. This," Harry once more gestured to himself, "simply needs to be reversed as quickly and discretely as possible. I'll allow Mayra to treat my lip and check me over, but that's it."

"And what do you expect me to tell her, Sirius, Remus … or Bethany, for that matter?" James raised a cynical eyebrow. "In case you haven't notice," he motioned for Harry to look around the room, "Harry isn't exactly capable of setting wards that can block Sirius out for over ten minutes, let alone capable of setting wards at all. Hell, even _I_ can't set temporary wards at that level."

For a tense moment, Harry and James stared at each other – the silence deafening between them. Harry knew from experience that the fewer people who knew about something, the less chance there was of that particular something being spread and becoming common knowledge. While he wished to keep his presence under wraps, he highly doubted that James would allow him to manipulate Mayra, Sirius, Remus, and Bethany's memories to cause them to forget the morning's events, which meant that the four were going to have to be told something of the truth. Not to mention, Sirius would most likely need to be fully briefed, before the man would give him permission to peruse the Black Library at Grimmauld Place.

"Fine, tell them what you wish," Harry said reluctantly, knowing his consent mattered very little in the true scope of things. James was the one with the wand, so the man didn't really need his consent to do anything. It was just how things went for captives in such situations. Though James allowed him to feel as if he might have some say, he didn't actually have any at all – not as long as he remained unarmed. He could only hope that James was smart enough to keep his presence to only Lily, Sirius, Mayra, Remus, and Bethany, whoever Bethany may be.

_Merlin save us all, if he tells Dumbledore._ Harry mentally groaned at the thought of what the Dumbledore of the timeline might do upon being informed of his little visit. He loved and sympathized with his old mentor, but at the same time, he hated the man for what the man had put him through and the secrets the man had kept from him all in the name of 'The Greater Good', or whatever the hell the man's philosophy had been, as well as for what the man had had planned for him. He didn't doubt for a second that the Dumbledore of this timeline was much the same as the Albus Dumbledore of his timeline.

"Can I trust you to stay put for a minute?" James asked, looking somewhat uncertain as to whether he really could or not.

"Yes." Harry nodded dutifully, setting aside his thoughts about Dumbledore for the time being and resigning himself to James's will.

James surveyed Harry a moment longer, before standing. He looked back down at Harry, as if still wondering whether he really could trust him to stay where he was and not attempt something rash. Upon seemingly deciding that he could, he made for the closed bedroom door behind Harry. Without fully turning his back on Harry, he crossed the distance over to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall beyond.

Harry heard several voices bombard the man with questions, before the door shut soundly and he was left alone in his counterpart's bedroom. He sighed and leaned back in the chair that he was sitting in. He was really getting sick and tired of having strange shit happen to him. Though he had accepted that he was not normal and his life never would be normal, traversing to an alternate world was just a bit too much, even for him.


	4. Complications

**Chapter 4 – Complications**

As it turned out, James hadn't been kidding about the whole 'stay put a minute' bit. It was quite literally only a minute after James had left that the man returned. Craning his neck to see behind him, Harry felt his chest tighten uncomfortably, as a familiar dark haired man and a familiar tawny haired man filed into the room after James. It was odd and frankly disconcerting for him to see both newcomers not only alive, but looking so young and unburdened by the long period of hardship each had suffered in his timeline.

Where his godfather had carried a haunted look in his gray eyes and a somewhat defeated bend in his posture, the Sirius Black before him stood tall and walked with a confident gait. The man's face was smooth and full with a light sheen and the beginnings of a tan, not at all drawn and pale. The same went for his lean frame, being thin and built of muscle, instead of skeletal and somewhat frail looking. His hair was cropped short, but not overly so – just long enough for it to frame his face, but not long enough for it to get in the way. The biggest difference, however, was in the man's eyes. They were more striking and full of life than Harry ever remembered seeing them.

Harry could not help but stare, drinking in this man who looked so similar to his godfather, yet so very different. He had seen pictures of Sirius in his youth, had accidently subject himself to a rather unflattering memory of Sirius and his father bulling Snape back when they were sixteen, and had seen the bare shadow of what the man ought to have become in the depleted form that Azkaban and life on the run had rendered his godfather. However, none of what he had seen of the man to date even began to truly compare to the handsome, aristocratic grace that was Sirius Black at 34 years of age, healthy, vibrant, and clearly a man of power.

A throat clearing to his left caused Harry to turn his head the slightest bit towards James, though his eyes did not leave Sirius, who was in turn eyeing him apprehensively.

"Lily is flooing Mayra," James said. "They should be up in a bit."

Harry simply nodded, his gaze still not wavering from Sirius. While it was one thing to be confront with his long dead father – a father that he hadn't ever truly known and only had the barest memory of – it was another to be confronted with a living version of the one and only parental figure that he ever remembered having in his life. _Very different,_ he thought firmly. Though he had mourned and accepted his godfather's death and had come to realize that not everything that had happened the night that Sirius had died was entirely his fault and that the blame also laid, as Dumbledore had said, on Dumbledore, himself, as well as Sirius, Snape, Bellatrix, and Voldemort, and he had also come to realize that death was not the worst thing that could happen to a person and that death for Sirius had most likely been a welcomed release, he still felt rather guilty about the whole affair and especially guilty about how things had been left between him and his godfather, as he really hadn't been all that great of godson to the man.

From the time that he had met Sirius, he had continually taken him for granted. Sirius had escaped Azkaban for him, lived off of rats for him, risked recapture and the Dementor's Kiss for him, and endured living in Grimmauld Place for him. Yet, the best that he had ever done for Sirius in return was to not kill the man the night that they had official met in the Shrieking Shake at the end of his third year. Over the two years that he had had Sirius in his life, he had rarely asked Sirius about his own life or attempted to get to know his godfather for the man that he truly was. Instead, he complained about every little thing that was wrong in _his_ life and had scowled at Sirius for being imperfect ,upon actually discovering a bit about Sirius and his father's time at Hogwarts. He couldn't even remember the last time that he had sat down and talked with his godfather about things unrelated to Voldemort or the war prior to the night that the man had died.

_The past is the past,_ Harry chastised himself. It would not do to dwell, especially not considering the situation that he was in. His Sirius, his godfather, was dead. The man before him was not really the man that he knew, and he was not in all actuality the man's godson. He had lost his opportunity with his own godfather and, like he had been doing for the last seven years, he just had to live with it.

"Porteur," James said. He was much closer than before.

Harry looked to him, blinking his eyes a few times to rid them of the stinging and sealing away his emotions deep within him. Upon taking in the concern look on James's face, he drew a steady breath. "I'm fine," he said, doing his best to sound as if he was, indeed, fine. All things considered, he was far from fine; but all things considered, he _had_ to be fine.

"Good," James said, after taking a moment to look Harry over and assure himself that Harry wasn't lying and that the youth was, indeed, capable of continuing to hold it together.

As silence descended over the room, Harry forced himself to relax back into his chair and keep his eyes trained on James. James held his gaze, not even so much as moving a muscle. Sirius and Remus, who he could not see, as his back was turned towards the two men and he wasn't about to turn around and allow himself to return to staring at Sirius, remained quiet and still as well. A minute passed and then another. A palpable tension strained the air, as the silence continued. Harry shut his mind to it and contented himself with appearing unperturbed.

Just when the silence had become nearly unbearable, it was broken by a knock at the door. Harry tensed, as one of the men behind him crossed over to the door and opened it. Upon the newcomers entering the room, James beckoned them forward. Two women cautiously moved around James and came to stand before Harry. One he recognized as Lily Potter, the other he could only assume to be Mayra.

"Porteur, may I introduce my wife, Lily," James indicated to the petite, red haired woman beside him. With her so close and actually looking at him, Harry saw that her emerald eyes were truly strikingly similar to his own, as well as that she was just as beautiful, if not more so, as he had envisioned her to be from the many photos that he had seen of her. "And Sirius's wife, Mayra Black." This time James indicated to the blonde woman standing next to Lily. She was of average height and delicate build and looked to be in her mid to late twenties. There was a kind smile upon her face, which complemented her keen brown eyes and softened her sharp features. In her left hand, she carried a black healer's bag.

"It is good to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Potter, Lady Black," Harry said in obligatory greeting and bowed his head to each. "I'd get up and greet you properly, if it would not cause me pain and would not possibly be seen as an aggressive act towards you to do so."

"It's fine, Ha-Porteur," Lily said tentatively, looking for all the world as if she wanted to reach out to him, but had the presence of mind not. Instead, she moved closer to James and leaned into him, visibly gaining strength from her husband. "It is good to meet you as well."

Though she sounded sincere, Harry could tell that her words were false, as the worried look in her eyes showed quite plainly, even without him having to use Legilimency, that she wanted her son back and that she did not think that it was good to meet him at all. He could not blame her for the sentiments, as he felt much the same about the situation.

"Mayra, please," James said, looking to the blonde woman, as he wrapped a comforting arm around Lily and tilted his head towards Harry.

"Of course," Mayra said and stepped towards Harry, drawing Harry's attention to her. As she bent down and set her healer's bag down on the floor beside her, James led Lily over the sofa by the window and coaxed her to sit down. "How bad is your pain?" Mayra asked, while popping the silver clasp on her healer's bag and pushing the leather flaps open.

"Right now, it's not all that bad," Harry answered honestly, while noting that through subtle maneuvering he had become surrounded and that all of the exits out of the room had been securely blocked. Sirius and Remus were at his back, guarding the door. James and Lily were to his right, guarding the window. Mayra was before him, demanding his focus. To his left was the shelf of useless knickknacks and photo frames, providing no retreat. If he had been entertaining thoughts of escape or attempting to resist before, he certainly wouldn't be now. He was far too outnumbered and, despite being free of magical restraints, his movements were far too restricted, at least in accordance to his current physical state.

"You said that it would cause you pain to get up," Mayra prompted, retrieving her wand from her violet robes, though she hesitated in pointing it directly at him and instead kept it train towards the floor.

"As long as I remain still, I feel alright," Harry admitted, remembering quite clearly the fire that he had felt searing his bones and burning through his veins after his altercation with James.

"May I cast a few diagnosis spells?" Mayra asked, standing up decisively and holding her wand loosely within her palm.

"I'm in no position to refuse," Harry said and nodded his head in ascent for her to cast her spells. He had, after all, agreed to allow her to look him over.

Harry watched the woman's wand intently, as it cut through the air. He followed the movements, matching them with a general diagnosis spell. As the beginnings of spell hit him, he stiffened, before relaxing, as he felt the familiar effects of the spell wash over him. As he knew from casting the same spell on himself and others more times than he could count, the spell did not provide physical results of any sort, but rather delivered the information of a person's injuries and ailments by a mental pull towards the afflicted area or areas on the person's body. From the way that Mayra was scowling, he could only assume that the results were not good.

Again she cast the spell; this time with a look of intense concentration on her face, as the results came to her. Again she scowled, though she seemed more worried than anything else.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, unease settling in his stomach. It was never good when a healer looked worried – truly worried in the way Mayra appeared to be at the moment.

"I … I'm not sure," Mayra said, while staring at him in a way that suggest that he shouldn't even be conscious, let alone alive.

"What do you mean 'not sure'?" James asked, rising to his feet. Though his face remained stoic and he held on to the calm pretense that he had maintained for the last half-hour, his voice quavered with alarm that the man could not hide. Lily reached out and gripped his hand tightly in her own, distress visible on her face and shining in her eyes.

"His magic…" Mayra shook her head, frowning in puzzlement. "It's all wrong. It's like it's burning upon itself. I've never …" She trailed off, giving James an apologetic look. "I don't know how to treat this. James, I know that Lily said that you didn't want to go to St. Mun–"

"No!" James cut her off, the word coming out decisive and final.

"James," Lily said imploringly, rising to stand beside him.

"No," James said yet again. This time, the word was soft, as he looked down at his wife.

"James, he's sick," Lily said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "I know that you want to believe that this isn't what it is, however I also know that deep down you've known that this could and most likely would happen. Healer Strauss said that the best thing –"

"No, Lily," James said firmly, his eyes hardening in reproach. "How many times have we gone to that blasted hospital seeking answers? How many Mind Healers, as well as General Healers and every other type of healer under the sun have attempted to help … to give an explanation, only to come up with another false diagnosis that replaces the last false diagnosis that the healer before gave us?" Upon Lily opening her mouth to protest, James shook his head. "I'm not saying that Strauss isn't great with Harry and hasn't done more than the others to help him through the trauma of his nightmares. However, like all the others, he hasn't stopped the nightmares. Worse yet, he wants to label our son as being crazy."

"James, Porteur is here," Sirius said, his tone gentle. Harry turned towards the man just in time to see him take a step away from his post by the door towards James. He noted that, while Sirius was mainly focused on James, the man kept a cautious eye on him as well.

"I'm aware," James said, turning away from Lily, who was looking even more distraught and at a loss than she had moments prior, to Sirius, who he narrowed his eyes at. "But just because he's here doesn't make Strauss right. This is something else, something more. I know it." Abruptly, his gaze flicked to Harry. "He's as real as Harry has always said that he is. My son is not crazy."

"James, why don't we let Mayra finish patching up Porteur's lip, while we go grab a cuppa and talk about this," Remus suggested kindly, attempting to appear sympathetic without being patronizing, yet failing miserably at it.

It was as he took in the sight of Remus, Sirius, Lily, and Mayra all looking at James with imploring eyes, silently begging the man to see reason, that Harry realized how lucky he had been that James was the first person that he had had contact with. The others would have wasted time attempting to convince him that he wasn't really who he knew himself to be and that he was really a pubescent boy with a mental disorder. Not to mention, they most likely would have attempted to cart him off to St. Mungo's straight off.

_Clearly, I won't be given actual permission to peruse the Black Library anytime soon,_ Harry thought irritably. He had preferred not to go behind Sirius's back just on sheer principle.

While Harry didn't know much about Disassociate Identity Disorder, he had heard enough from his aunt and uncle's ramblings over the years about anything and everything abnormal and had picked up enough from the way James spoke of the Disorder to know that it involved a person having multiple personalities, or rather identities, that switched up from time to time. According to some article that his aunt had read, one identity of a person suffering from the Disorder might only speak English and be right handed, while another identity might speak French exclusively, be allergic to cat hair, and write left handed. His aunt had spent an entire afternoon scoffing at the article, claiming it as rubbish. However, from the way that James spoke, he got the impression that the only reason the man believed that he was sane and wasn't a fractured personality of his son's conscience was because the man believed his son's claims that he was real, and that was despite having watched him set wards that the man knew full well that his son was incapable of setting and him using Legilimency on the man, which he could assume from James's reaction that Harry was also incapable of doing. It was as if his magical capabilities had no bearing on his sanity in James's mind, suggesting that the article his aunt had read hadn't been complete rubbish after all and that whatever abilities that he possessed that his counterpart didn't would do nothing towards convincing the others that he was who he claimed to be.

Harry groaned. Looking to James, who was glaring at Remus with firm resolve on his face, it was apparent to him that the man was his only hope of not being locked up within St. Mungo's in the imminent future. He was in a depleted enough state at the moment that the others could easily force a tranquilizing potion of the very strong calming draught variety down his throat, leaving him even more incapacitated than he already was, or simply gang up on him and stun him, which would render him fully incapacitated. Once he was shut up in St. Mungo's, it would be exceedingly difficult to shake off the influence of all the potions and spells that would no doubt be forced down his throat and placed upon him, making escaping highly problematic. He didn't have time to waste with such nonsense.

_Well, there is nothing for it, _Harry decided, as a plan formed in his mind that was crude, yet highly likely to be succeed. He could not let the others convince James that he was fragment of their Harry and that St. Mungo's was the only place for him now that he had officially succumbed to his 'illness'.

"D-Dad," Harry said, purposefully allowing fear to quaver his voice. All five adults looked to him. However, the only person's gaze that he returned, let alone was concerned with, was James's piercing stare. As his and James's eyes lock, he reached out to the man's mind with a gentle, yet detectable touch, giving James every opportunity to resist his intrusion. The man didn't and instead allowed him to pull forward memories of Harry's recent breakdowns.

As Harry watched the struggles of his counterpart, he couldn't help but feel terrible for the state that the boy's nightmares had left the boy in. While, yes, he had admittedly felt fear many times in his life, had felt his blood run cold with terror, had felt disturbed and disgusted with his gut clenching and his heart pounding, had felt that to die would be better than to live, he had always had a purpose that went beyond his internal cowardice. There had been no room for fear, when innocent lives were at stake. There had been no time for terror, when the world as he knew it could end in a single moment. There had been no sense in being squeamish, when he knew that the death and desolation around him would still be there when he woke the next day and would continue on, until he brought Voldemort to his knees and ended the war once and for all. And every time that he had thought about surrender, he had had all that he had lost to drive him onward and back into battle.

The boy had had none of that, had had no purpose to propel him past the horrors that he witnessed in the night. The boy had only had his nightmares, nightmares that came and went and tormented the boy with every new vision that they delivered, terrible nightmares that affected the boy just as the real events had affected him. The fear, blood cold terror, and everything else that he had never allowed himself to dwell on showed plainly in the boy's eyes, as he witness the memories of the boy breaking in his father's arms, clinging to his mother for dear life, folding in upon himself in silence and refusing to speak. It was heartbreaking, yet worse, because, in a way, he knew that he was the cause of it. He didn't know how or why this world's Harry dreamt of him and his world, but it was the horrors of his life that had affected the boy so.

Upon pulling out of James's memories, Harry hesitated.

"H-Harry?"

Hearing the desperation and hopefulness in Lily's voice, however, caused Harry to resolve himself and proceed to execute his plan. The woman would never have 'Harry' back, if things continued as they were and she and the others hounded James into compliance. At the moment, he needed her, Sirius, Remus, and Mayra away from him and James outside of their influence. He wasn't entirely certain what the results of Mayra's diagnosis spells meant, but he needed time to think and consider the significance of the results, as well as figure out how to get back to his own timeline.

Upon casting an unsure glance at Lily and to the others in the room, he returned his gaze to James. He drew his arms around himself, as he had seen his counterpart do in the man's memories, making the act seem subconscious. As he induced a shiver to run down his spine, he shrunk further in on himself and whispered in a shaky voice, "H-he was here, wasn't he? Th-That's why you're all looking at me like-like …"

Harry shut his eyes, forcing his worst memories across him mind, allowing himself to tap into the emotion contained within them. When he reopened his eyes a moment later and looked back up at James, his vision was bleary with unshed tears and fear mixed deep sorrow and uncertainty showed on his face. He could see in James's stiff stance that the man knew what he was doing, but whatever the man actually felt regarding his display remained hidden behind a carefully composed mask of indifference. Silently, he willed the man to play along.

The choice was taken out of both of their hands a split-second later, as Lily practically threw herself upon him and pulled him into a tight embrace, all the while babbling about how everything was going to be okay and that they were going to get him help and that she loved him and always would love him no matter how many times Porteur showed up. As she continued on, her voice cracking into barely restrained sobs, James gave a sigh of defeat and crossed over to Harry as well.

While Harry had returned Lily's affections and played up his part, the moment James was close to him, Harry reached out to the man, as if seeking reassurance. He bit his lip, while trembling, as if restraining a sob – another thing that he had seen his counterpart do.

"It's going to be okay," James said softly, though not entirely heartfelt, and pulled Harry into the hug that the youth was obviously seeking.

"It's not! It's not!" Harry refuted, burying himself into the man's chest and tucking his head into the man's robes, as he simulated a complete and total meltdown. James's arms tightened around him, almost painfully so, though the man did not call him on his charade. Instead, through his pretend sobbing, Harry heard James dismiss Sirius, Remus, and Mayra from the room. Lily continued to fret and worry and whisper soothing things to him, while running a hand through his hair.

For the briefest of moments, Harry felt his heart constricted and he felt as if he was headed for a meltdown for real. In that split second, it wasn't his counterpart's parents hugging him, comforting him. It was _his_ parents hugging him and calling him son and telling him that they loved him and things were going to be alright. As quick as the slip up occurred, he shoved back his conflicting feelings. Getting sentimental would not help him. _They are not your parents,_ he reminded himself firmly. _They're strangers, nothing but strangers._

Harry kept up the act for several minutes, all the while making it quite clear that it was James, who he wanted. Eventually, as he gave pretense of calming down a bit, James suggested that Lily go down to the others and recuperate, as it had been a stressful morning for all of them and she looked like she could use the break. She protested, but upon James assuring her that he would remain with Harry and keep him calm, she relented, sounding truly worn.

The second that the door snapped shut behind Lily, James shoved Harry away from him with a livid expression on his face.

"You manipulative little shit," James said in a low hiss, looking very much like he would like nothing more than to deck Harry a second time.

Harry merely cocked an eyebrow at the man, entirely unrepentant and face clear of tears or distress of any sort. "It's in the best interest of your son that I remain free and clear of St. Mungo's, no matter what the cost. I can't help him, if I'm locked up in the loony bin with so many mind altering potions pumping through my system that I can't think straight."

James opened his mouth to give a retort, but, apparently too angry, his mouth snapped back shut and his fists clenched with his nails digging into his palms. He took several calming breaths.

"I'm no expert on Dissociative Identity Disorder, but I know enough to know that I damn well can't prove who I say I am," Harry said, attempting to reason with the man. He needed James on his side. "I could cast a hundred spell that you're son has yet to learn, speak in French, German, Bulgarian, Italian, Russian, or even Arabic, and swear by my own fucking magic that I am who I say I am to no avail. For all intents and purpose, I'd still be who I am, even if I truly were a fragment of your son's fracture mind. Please, you're the only one who believes me, and you are most likely the only one who _will_ believe me. I need to get back home, so your son can return and things can be as they should be."

"_Never pull a stunt like that again,_" James ground out between clenched teeth, but nodded nonetheless.


	5. Departure

**Chapter 5 – Departure**

The plan was basic enough, though it would involve him withstanding the pain afflicting him and his body's overall weakness. There was no other option, however – or no other option that Harry was willing to submit to, at the very least. As far as he was concerned a little pain was worth avoiding unnecessary risks, and sticking around and risking being shipped off to St. Mungo's was the absolute definition of unnecessary risk in his book.

"You can't just run off," James said in protest, as he tracked Harry's movements about the room with sharp eyes from where he stood leaning against the edge of his son's writing desk, his arms folded over his chest.

"I get that you don't trust me, James, and you have every reason not to. I'm but a stranger to you, and you're but a stranger to me," Harry said, as he added a pair of toffee colored, corduroy pants from his counterpart's wardrobe to the rucksack that he had been packing. "But you need to trust me in this. They will try to break your resolve. When that doesn't work, they will plot to go behind your back, in order to do what they believe is best for your son. I could see it in their eyes. Every one of them is set on shipping me off to St. Mungo's. The only thing you'll achieve by going down there and trying to convince them of the truth is cause unnecessary strife between you and them."

"You're not well," James argued once more, a point the man had been attempting to argue for the last fifteen minutes.

"I've lived through worse." Harry looked over his shoulder at the man. "I've fought and survived a war. A little bit of pain and few days on my own, while I figure this out, is nothing compared to all that I've experienced. I may not be entirely well, but I'm well enough for this. I promise."

"I should come with you," James suggested for a third time.

Harry shook his head and went back to packing. "You said it yourself; you're not keyed into the wards protecting Grimmauld Place."

"Should I find it disturbing that you are and are apparently very familiar with the Black Library?" James asked, his eyes narrowing and brow drawing tight with consternation.

"If I was _your_ son and had been raised as a Potter ought to be raised, yes, you probably should." Harry gave the man a sardonic look. "Seeing as I'm not your son and was raised with little knowledge of my heritage and have lived a majority of my life in a hostile environment, you should just be happy that I have turned out as well as I have."

Silence fell between Harry and James, as Harry finished packing a change of clothes into the rucksack and moved on to packing a few other items that he thought might be useful to him.

"You're certain that the wards will recognize that you've been keyed into them back in your world?" James asked dubiously, as he stepped aside to allow Harry better access to the desk.

"You don't know much about the nature of magic in regard to the soul, do you?" Harry asked, while pulling open the left hand drawer and removing an unused, leather bound journal that he had located earlier. He plucked up a sealed pot of ink and a few fresh quills from one of the upper compartments of the desk.

"No, I don't," James admitted, his eyes continuing to track Harry's every move.

Harry hummed and began riffling through the back, right hand drawer of the desk, looking for the chalk that he had found during his previous search. "I don't have time to explain in detail the relationship between one's magic and one's soul or the link between one's memories, one's magic, and one's soul. It's all very complex and the dependency correlations get a bit messy. The gist of it, though, is that wherever the soul goes, one's magic and memories follow … to an extent. After all, the creation of a horcrux divides the soul, which divides the memories and magic … and, well, it all really does get fairly complicated, especially if one creates more than one horcrux. Giving up too many memories or too much of one's innate magic … the results –"

"Woah! Hold up a minute," James interrupted Harry's tirade. The man's horror showed plainly on his face. "Horcrux? Dividing the soul? Just what in Merlin's name are you on about?"

Harry froze in his movements, blinked, looked up at James, and blinked again. He was so used to the people around him knowing what a horcrux was and that Voldemort, specifically, had created seven of the blasted things that he hadn't even thought to censor himself. _Curse it all!_ he thought irritably, reminded by the man's ignorance that in this timeline the world had yet to face Voldemort's second rise to power. Though, if events surrounding the upcoming Triwizard Tournament in this world went anything like the events that had surrounded the Triwizard Tournament in his world, James and the others would be faced, once more, with a _very_ immortal dark lord _very_ soon.

"Well?" James demanded with impatience.

"Do we really have to do this right now?" Harry asked just as impatiently. _He_ did not have time at the moment to discuss just how depraved Voldemort truly was, and if he didn't have time, then James didn't have time for it either, even if a long winded discussion about Voldemort's horcruxes would ultimately prove beneficial to this world's future. As it was, he needed to leave, before someone came up to check on them. "We're already cutting things close as it is." Every second that he stayed was one more second closer to discovery.

Conflict waged in James's eyes, as the man warred with himself between pursuing the subject further and allowing Harry to get on with his packing, which would ultimately contribute to his _true_ son being returned to him sooner rather than later. "What you were talking about …" James trailed off with a slight shudder. "Porteur, how do you know all that? _Why_ do you know that?"

"The war," Harry stated plainly, as if those two words answered everything. In his mind, they did. The war against Voldemort was his life, had affected every aspect of his evolution as a human being. There was little, if anything at all that had occurred in life that couldn't be traced back to those two words.

"Knowing about dividing the soul … it's important to the war?" James asked stoically, his words careful and weighed, as if he were measuring the meaning of each one.

"There are some things that you should know," Harry conceded, as he secured the items that he had collected from the writing desk within the already partially packed rucksack. "Not just you, but the Order of the Phoenix as well," he clarified and turned on his heel to head back over to the wardrobe to retrieve a muggle jacket and trainers. As he did so, he ignored the circumspect way that James was watching him. "I'll be sure to write down what I deem is important, before I leave. If you and yours act quickly enough on the information, you may just prevent this world from suffering a similar fate to my own."

"Our worlds are that similar?" James asked, looking deeply troubled by the very thought.

_As well as he should be,_ Harry thought regrettably, but instead shrugged and moved to sit on his counterpart's bed, so that he would have an easier time of pulling on and lacing up the trainers. "I can't be certain without actually looking into your world's history and attempting to compare it to my own, but from what you said about Voldemort being inactive and how his demise came about, it appears that our worlds are similar enough that some of what I know might be useful."

As Harry bent down to secure the trainers on his feet, pain thrummed through his body. The pain was nowhere near as intense as it had been after his earlier altercation with James, despite how much he'd been moving around in the last few minutes. He wasn't entirely sure if that was a good thing. In fact, he was almost certain that the decrease of pain was a bad thing. Mayra had said that it was as if his magic was burning upon itself. Less pain meant less burning, which meant that his magic was settling. If his magic was settling, that meant that his soul was settling within its new environment as well, which wasn't good – wasn't good at all. If his soul found a home within his counterpart's body, his efforts to reverse whatever had happened to him and Harry would be met with greater resistance.

"Something wrong?" James asked, his keen eyes observing Harry's subtle change in mood.

Harry looked up from looping the laces of the trainer encasing his left foot. James stared back at him, the man's face unreadable, despite the man's stance being restrained and tensed with concern. _He sees his son sitting here, yet knows by my mannerisms alone that the person occupying this body is not his son._ He couldn't even begin to imagine how difficult that had to be for the father. The only thing that he could even think of that would even give him any sort of perspective on just how strange and upsetting that had to be for James was his experience with polyjuiced spies attempting to infiltrate his ranks and get close to him by using familiar faces that he knew and trusted. Unlike polyjuice, however, his appearance wouldn't revert to its original form after an hour's time. In fact, he had been in James's presence for over an hour now; a time-lapse that the man had most likely noted even in spite of the man's conviction regarding his origins.

Standing, Harry held James's unwavering gaze. "You're a smart man, Mr. Potter."

James raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Don't do anything stupid," Harry said, giving the man a grave look that he usually reserved for the most dire of situations. "I'll do everything in my power to bring your son back to you. You have my word on that."

"If I don't hear from you in two days –" James began.

"You will," Harry stated firmly.

"I don't like this," James reiterated his initial take on Harry's proposed plan.

"Noted," Harry said and pulled on the bomber jacket that he'd taken from his counterpart's wardrobe. _Definitely a gift from Sirius,_ he decided, as he zipped up the worn leather. Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder, he cast a glance around the room. "Where does Harry keep his wand?"

James pointed to an empty expanse of floor near the center of the room.

Harry walked over to the area, paying close attention to the way that the floorboards behaved under his weight. It didn't take him more than a few seconds to locate the one that was loose. He bent down and pried the floorboard up, revealing a secret stash of his counterpart's things. There were a few scrolls of parchment, a folded photo, an antique pocket watch, and a 10 ¼" ash wand. Harry sighed, as he picked up the wand. Ash wands were notorious for being loyal to their original owners and refusing to work properly for anyone else who attempted to use them.

Upon replacing the floorboard, Harry stood back up. He examined his counterpart's wand for an extended moment, before turning to the scattered books by the bedside table that had been toppled over during his altercation with James. Giving the wand a flick, the books obeyed his command and neatly restacked themselves on the bedside table. While the wand was workable, he had felt a twinge of resistance. _Not great, but it will due,_ he thought, resigning himself to the wand. It most definitely wasn't a proper match, but a wand was a wand. He had learned that right quick, after Ollivander had gone missing and his wand had been shattered in battle.

"So, do you want me to actually stun you, or can you pull off the act without the realism?" Harry asked, turning back to James, who was still hovering by the writing desk, and stowing his counterpart's wand up the sleeve of the bomber jacket.

"I can do without the realism," James said stiffly.

Harry smirked at getting the response that he had expected. "Suit yourself."

Under James's ever watchful gaze, Harry crossed the room over to the lone window that overlooked the front garden and the cobble paved street beyond. He unhooked the polished latch and pushed the left pane outward, opening the window. Using the sofa below the window to assist him, he climbed onto the window's ledge, straddling the sill with one leg dangling outside the house and the other still braced against the sofa. Looking out the window and down towards the ground a full story below, he assessed the quickest and safest route down.

"Do you climb out second story windows often?" James asked, sounding a bit closer than he had before.

Harry pulled his head back inside and looked to James, who had taken several steps towards him. "Not even six months ago I scaled Hogwarts's Astronomy Tower in the dead of night. A twelve foot drop in broad daylight with plenty of hand and foot holds is nothing compared to that."

"What were you – never mind, I don't want to know." James motioned for Harry to carry on with what he was doing.

"I wouldn't have told you anyways." Harry grinned, before easing himself out of the window, while being careful not to snag the rucksack on the window frame. Using all the strength and experience that he had, he began his descent. The old wattle and daub cottage provided ideal hand and foot holds. He braced one hand on the window frame, as he reached out for the closest vertical timber and inched his way along the horizontal timber marking the beginning of the second story. Once he had a hold on the vertical timber, his descent became very straight forward and a simple matter of keeping his grip. In less than a minute, he was standing on a firm patch of earth below the window.

Harry spared one glance back up to the window and nodded in silent farewell to James, before turning on the spot and heading for the garden gate with a scowl marring his face. His climb down had cost him. His entire body was aching once more, acidic pain burning in his veins and sizzling his nerves. Ever present pain or not, however, he didn't have time to stick around. He needed to put as much distance between him and the Potters' cottage as quickly as was possible, before it was discovered by the others that he had gone. Employing controlled breathing and Occlumency against the pain afflicting him, he pushed himself onward. At any rate, he _had_ lived through worse.

Past the garden gate, Harry turned right, making his way towards the center of the village. With each step that he took and each observation that he made, as he took in his surroundings, the fact that he was no longer within the same time and space of existence that he had come to know over the last 23 years of his life was made indisputably clear.

The last time that Harry had walked the streets of Godric's Hollow, the entire village had been nothing but rubble and ash. The pungent smell of burnt flesh and the overpowering stench of death had punctuated the hot autumn air with such intensity that he had lost his measly breakfast, only to continue to empty his stomach well past there having been nothing left to sick up. The sour rot had lingered on his skin, in his hair, embed within his taste buds, and up his nose for days afterwards, as did the images of decayed bodies of blackened flesh and the mass graves that they had dug to bury the dead linger on his conscience. Though it hadn't been the first time that he had come across a burnt corpse, the shear depravity of an entire village having been leveled had disturbed him greatly. He could still feel the skinless, charcoaled bodies that he had helped pull from the destruction pressed against his own body of flesh and life, if he allowed the memory to claim him fully. The only positive had been that the village had appeared to have been hit with Devil's Fire, which meant that the residents hadn't suffered long. It would have been over and done with within a matter of seconds. Most had probably passed on before they had even registered that they and their entire village were burning alive.

Shaking himself from the better left forgotten memory, Harry forced himself to focus on the present and took in a large pulled of crisp morning air. The fresh, country scent that invaded his nose and subsequently filled his lungs pushed the last vestiges of the memory away. With his sense on high alert, he moved up the lane at a steady pace. He had far too much to worry about without fretting over the existence of buildings and people that ought to have been long gone in accordance to the world that he knew as his own.

_Your mission is clear,_ Harry reminded himself firmly. _Do what needs to be done. Nothing else matters. It's all temporary – a dream outside of a dream._


	6. A Father's Woes

**Chapter 6 – A Father's Woes**

"So you're telling me, James Potter," green eyes flashed dangerously, as they narrowed into slits, "that our _thirteen year old_ son overpowered you, not once, but twice – stole your wand, not once, but _twice_ – _incapacitated_ you – a full grown man, an _Auror_ – not once, but –"

"– twice? Yes, I am, Lily." James steadily met his wife's infuriated gaze across their kitchen table, where they were both currently seated. "If you want to get technical about it, it wasn't Harry who did those things. It was Porteur."

"Harry, Porteur – they are the same person, James!" Lily exclaimed furiously. "They –" she began, but cut herself off and took a calming breath. "Harry is our son no matter what he elects to call himself," she continued in an even, carefully composed tone. "I understand that you don't want to accept his illness. It's difficult –"

"He's _not_ ill," James refuted. "I'm not the one finding it difficult to accept the truth for what it is." He pushed back his chair, the spindle legs scraping roughly against to wood floor of their kitchen, and made to stand. He needed some fresh air. He needed space to think. The morning had turned them all on their heads. He and Lily arguing about what had happened would do no one, especially Harry, any good.

"Damn it, James!" Lily yelled and stood as well, stopping James in his tracks, as he made to turn away from her and head for the backdoor.

"Lils, our son is missing," James said softly, meeting her fiery temper with self-possessed calm, knowing that if he responded with anger it would only fuel the discord between them. "Us fighting like this isn't going to bring him back."

"Then get out there and do something!" Lily shouted, tears sparking in her eyes and threatening to spill down her flushed cheeks. "Find him!"

_I am doing something,_ James thought with frustration. He was doing the only thing that he could: entrusting their son's fate to the one person truly capable of bring Harry back to them.

Though James knew very little about Porteur, he had observed enough to conclude that trusting Porteur to do whatever was necessary was their best chance of getting Harry back – their _only_ hope, if he were being entirely honest. As startling as it had been for him to realize, Porteur was far greater equipped to do something about Harry being missing and to succeed in the endeavor of returning Harry to them than even Albus was. Something about Porteur (his mannerisms, his speech, the knowledge that he had displayed) had told of an intellect and an understanding of the world and magic that went far beyond any that he had encountered. There had also been a sense of determination about the young man that had left him with the distinct impression that Porteur _would_ accomplish any goal, once the young man had set his mind upon it to do so, or would otherwise die trying. Even before Porteur's open proclamation that the young man was regarded as the Gray Lord of Europe back in his own world, he had picked up intuitively that Porteur was well versed in various magics – the Mind Arts and Warding being only a few of the complex fields that the young man was privy to – and was most likely not only knowledgeable in them, but quite proficient in their practice, as well having no self-imposed boundaries or respect for the lawful restriction held by the Ministry of Magic to restrain the use of said magics. There was just that wild sort of feel to the young man.

Yet, as an Auror, James had come across all types, from the most benign characters to the most dangerous wizards. To say that Porteur was wild or insidious in base nature would be incorrect, or so he had ascertained. From the brief hour and thirteen minutes that he had spent with Porteur, he had been unable to categorize Porteur in any definitive manner. He had found it impossible to identify the young man as being civilized, despite the overall benevolent behavior that the young man had display towards him (which had allowed him to feel safe and not at risk of coming to harm in the young man's presence). Something was just distinctly off in the young man's eyes and the way that he moved – something feral and untamed – a force not meant to be mistaken as civilized, let alone subservient to the whims and pressures of civil society. In an opposing assessment, it had been just as impossible for him to label Porteur as being uncultivated and without social graces, just as impossible for him to identify the young man as being truly criminal.

Yes, all of his instincts had screamed that Porteur was dangerous. Nonetheless, the young man's body language and the very way the young man had spoken was that of control. Porteur was a young man very much in control and consciously aware of cause and effect. James had witnessed as much, as he had watched the young man react and process the initial shock of waking up in an unknown world, rationalize what might have occurred, deduce the situation correctly, and proceed to be proactive in formulating a plan that would bring about a desired solution for all involved. At no point had he even glimpsed a hint of madness, or any sort of behavior that would suggest that the young man wasn't in possession of a sound, analytical mind. Porteur was, to his understanding, in a class of his own: a highly skilled, deadly individual, who was not only comfortable dealing death, but was capable of rational and methodical thought.

A shiver ran down James's spine, as he considered the type of damage such an individual could inflict. A highly skilled and deadly madman was one thing. A rational and methodical politician was another. Both were dangerous to cross. To combine the two … to replace the madness with a sane, tactical mind, and if he wasn't mistaken, factor in the bullheadedness of a Gryffindor … the results were incomprehensible.

'_I've fought and survived a war.'_

'_Have you've killed someone in full knowledge that your actions would result in the other person's death? – Yes.'_

'_It's in the best interest of your son that I remain free and clear of St. Mungo's, no matter what the cost.'_

'_How old were you the first time you knowingly took a life? – 11, in self-defense.'_

'_I did not need a grandiose moniker for my reputation to spread.__'_

'_How old were you, when you became a mercenary? – 11, essentially, though I didn't start getting paid until I was 19.'_

'_Seeing as I'm not your son and was raised with little knowledge of my heritage and have lived a majority of my life in a hostile environment, you should just be happy that I have turned out as well as I have.'_

'_Where were your parents, when you were force to kill at the age of eleven? – Dead.'_

'_I am Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, the Gray Lord of Europe – self-named as Porteur Demort.__'_

'_Why did you choose the life of a mercenary? – I didn't choose it. It chose me.__'_

'_Porteur, how do you know all that? Why do you know that? – The war.'_

James could not even begin to imagine the horrors that Porteur's life had to have consisted of for the young man to have spoken with such calm acceptance of having taken a life at the age of 11, of having become a paid mercenary at the age of 19, of having earned the title 'Gray Lord of Europe' with a widespread reputation to back up his claim to said title, or of having fought and survived a war that had no doubt been bloody and riddled with violence, if Harry's nightmares were anything to go by. What his son must have seen at night, James did not want to consider. He had seen the aftermath of his son's nightmares, and now, after having met Porteur, he was beginning to think Harry's refusal to discuss the actual content of his nightmares with him and Lily was as much to protect them from the truth of what filled their son's mind during the night as it was that Harry did not want to relive his nightmares during his waking hours. _He _may not know the full extent of the wreckage that Porteur could wreak upon the world – the deadly combination the young man was – but his son had had a front row seat and most definitely understood very well what Porteur was capable of.

Yet …

_James smiled at seeing his son huddled up with the new book that he had bought him. Harry had been begging him and Lily for months to send him the funds to buy the latest book in the Wesley Spindle series. As a third year student at Hogwarts, Harry had gained unrestricted access to the bookstore in Hogsmeade on Hogsmeade weekends, which meant that Harry had been able to keep up with all the book releases over the last six months. He and Lily had received a very long and persuasive letter discussing why they ought to send Harry the necessary funds to purchase the book the moment that Harry had discovered that Wesley Spindle had released the next volume in the Dragon Series. Seeing Harry's face light up at being gifted the book, upon his arrival home for Easter Holiday, however, had been well worth the angry letter that he had received for refusing to send Harry the requested galleons._

_Yawning and knocking on the doorframe leading into the sitting room, in order to make his presence know, James waited for Harry to acknowledge that he was no longer the only member of the Potter family awake at such an untimely hour. As was his son's accustom response to unexpected noises, Harry's shoulders tensed with distress and his head jerked up to locate the source of sound._

"_Just me," James said softly, as his son's bespectacled gaze locked onto his own._

"_Morning, dad," Harry greeted softly in return, as the tension slowly began to ease from his body._

"_You're up early," James commented offhandedly and made to join his son. Lowering himself down into his favorite armchair, he took a quick assessment of his son's overall state. If the dark circles under Harry's eyes weren't telling enough, the fact that Harry had the book open to the end of the second chapter, when yesterday night he had been over halfway finished with it, indicating that Harry was on his second read through, told him that Harry had probably been awake for two or three hours now. The fact that Harry was giving the book a second read through following directly after his initial read through told him that Harry was attempting to distract himself. All evidence added up and accounted for, prognosis: a nightmare, though not a particularly distressing one. If it had been a distressing one, he and the rest of the house would have heard about it by now._

"_You are too," Harry accused and shifted in his position on the comfortable lounge style couch so that he could sit up properly without having to lean so heavily on the couch's armrest. He met James's inquiring gaze with defiance. "Not checking up on me, are you?"_

"_No, I'm up early thanks to Madam Bones. She has 'requested' that I go into the office early to prepare for the Mortimer trial," James assured, while appreciating his son's defiance, which was a sign of his son's will to live as normal of a life as possible. A few years ago, he had worried that Harry would never be able to strike out on his own and that the nightmares that plagued his son would eventually cripple the boy completely. He didn't know what had changed for Harry, but something fundamental had changed in Harry as of late. He was glad to see it, even if it meant that Harry had begun to pull away from him and Lily._

"_Dad?"_

_The uncertainty in Harry's voice earned James's full attention. "Yes?" he asked, looking to his son inquiringly._

"_Is it wrong to want something," Harry lowered his eyes from his father's earnest gaze, as his words lowered in volume to a barely audible whisper, "even if you know that that something will never happen and that you shouldn't really want it to begin with?"_

"_Has this got something to do with your nightmares?" James asked with concern, as he attempted to wrap his head around why Harry would ask him such a question._

"_Porteur wants a lot of things," Harry said, his eyes fixed on his lap. "He always has all these things that he wants, and even though I don't think he should want some of the things that he does or believe that he could make some of the other things that he wants actually happen, he wants them and he somehow makes them happen. He is so close now … to his final goal … he –" Harry shut his eyes, trying to forget something that he clearly didn't want to remember or think of._

"_Are we only talking about Porteur wanting things, or are we talking about something that you want as well?" James asked, doing his best to not reach out to Harry and smoother him with reassurances as he so wanted to. This maturing version of his son wouldn't appreciate 'being babied' without him first reaching out to him and asking for the warmth of his father's embrace._

"_Is it wrong?" Harry opened his eyes and looked up to his father with pleadingly emerald eyes._

"_I'd say that it depends on what it is that you want," James said in answer to the strange inquiry. "But if you know you shouldn't want it, then perhaps you shouldn't, especially if you know that it will never happen, as you'll be wasting your time pinning after something that you'll never have and shouldn't actually want."_

_Harry shoulders dropped and he nodded his understanding, looking completely put out._

"_What is it that you want, Harry?" James asked, leaning forward out the worn leather armchair that he loved so much and taking his son's hands into his own. Though Harry had indicated that it was something that he could never have, if James could give it to him, he would. He disliked seeing his children upset by something, especially when there was something that he might be able to do about it. "You can tell me, you know that."_

"_IwanttobePorteur," the words tumbled from Harry's mouth in rapid succession, guilt and shame visibly darkening his young face._

_James sucked in a sharp, jagged breath, his brain freezing, as it shunned the syllables and refused to acknowledge the admission that had just slipped from his son's lips._

"_I want to be Porteur," Harry repeated, his voice strong this time, as he looked directly into his father eyes. "I'm tired of being scared and weak. I'm tired of knowing what I know, but unable to do anything about any of it, because everyone except you thinks that I've lost it and would never believe me or you, if we try to tell them. Dad, I'm tired of people treating me like glass. I'm tired of Mum watching me out of the corner of her eye, as if I might have a mental break at any moment. I'm tired of pretending with Healer Strauss that nothing I see at night is actually real. I don't want –" Harry took a shaky breath, frustrated and angry tears pooling in his eyes. "If there is one person that I could choose to be, if I had to name one person that I respected more than anyone else I know … it's Porteur."_

"_Harry," James said, not knowing how to respond. He felt a faint amount of hurt that his son hadn't named him as the person that he respected more than anyone else and wanted to be, yet the problem with what Harry just told him went far deeper than his own momentarily hurt pride._

"_Is it wrong?" Harry demanded. "Is it wrong to want to be him?"_

"_No," the word slid across James's tongue and became vocalized, before he could truly consider it. _

James never had gotten out of Harry just why it was that his son respected Porteur so much. However, the fact that his son did respect Porteur, even more than his son respected him, had left him with a quandary. With Porteur now here and Harry missing, James could only trust his son and trust his instincts. His son wasn't a bad judge of character. In fact, Harry was generally a very good judge of character. So, for Harry to respect and look up to Porteur, even with as volatile and dangerous as the young man could be, meant that there was something that Harry had seen in Porteur through his dreams that he had yet to see himself.

It was with surprise that James found himself coming to the edge of the pond a short walk into the forest beyond the back garden of his family's cottage. In his distracted wanderings, he had come to the very place that he had intended to retreat to prior to Lily yelling at him for leaving. He winced at the memory, knowing that the entire situation could have been avoided.

"It's going to be a long few days, old boy," he said to his haggard looking reflection, knowing now that Porteur had been right. Trying to convince Lily and the others that Harry wasn't ill and that Porteur was real had only resulted in Remus and Sirius looking at him like _he_ had gone off the deep end and had caused a major, entirely needless row between him and Lily.

Taking a seat on a boulder that had long been his perch beside this particular pond, James sighed. He felt so helpless, so useless. While he could be out with Sirius and Remus, searching all the places that 'Harry' might have run off to, he couldn't bring himself to invest energy in such a pointless endeavor. He knew exactly where Porteur was and Porteur was the one that they were truly looking for. No, looking for Harry would do him as much good as looking for that specialty butterbeer bottle cap that he had lost as a boy, during his summer between his second and third years at Hogwarts. The only thing that he could do right now was try to keep his worry for his son's safety and wellbeing from consuming him and his family whole. In a few minutes, he'd go back inside and do his best to make amends with Lily, comfort Bethany, and perhaps come up with something that would allow them to all feel at least a little bit productive in bring Harry back to them, despite Harry's actual return depending entirely upon Porteur, a complete stranger to them.


	7. 12 Grimmauld Place

**Chapter 7 – 12 Grimmauld Place**

12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Harry grimaced at the dilapidated masonry and the rusted iron terraces. It seemed eons ago that he had first stood before the townhouse much as he was now. Back then, of course, his future had been uncertain for an entirely different reason and the house had been, in truth, an entirely different house. Unlike eight years ago, however, he was no longer a stranger to the ancestral home. Though, he was a stranger to this particular version of the house. The building of brick and mortar before him was as unfamiliar with him, as he was with all things in this strange reality.

_But not quite,_ Harry noted, as he steadily ascended the front stoop. The wards palpably slid along his body, the magic testing him, as he passed each checkpoint unhindered. Though he had never been granted access to the version of 12 Grimmauld Place in this world, he had been granted full access to the version of 12 Grimmauld Place in his world. In fact, he was the recognized authority over the wards in his world, seeing as Sirius had died and willed the entire Black Estate to him. With Sirius still alive to control the wards in this world, however, he wouldn't have the same authority over the wards, as he had in his world. Still, it did not change the fact that the wards protecting Grimmauld Place in his world had already imprinted the necessary approval on his magic, granting him full access to the property.

Unsurprisingly, just has Harry had assumed that the wards would, the wards surrounding this world's version of 12 Grimmauld Place recognized the imprint on his magic and accepted him, as if he had been given access by the Sirius of this world.

Harry smiled, as the much abused front door of the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black swung inward of its own accord, welcoming him.

"Home sweet home." Harry sighed, as he stepped into the long, narrow entrance hall. The dusty and cobweb strewn, gold chandelier overhead had lit up with his presence, yet the dim light of the forgotten wax candles barely penetrated the surrounding darkness or the expansive ceiling that he knew to extent all five stories of the house.

Much like the deplorable state that the house had been in in his world, when Harry had first set foot within the ancestral home of the House of Black at the age of 15, the wallpaper all down the hall was peeling away from where it had once adhered to the walls, the fibers of the carpet running the length of the entrance hall were embed with and layered by dust particles and age old dirt, and Walburga Black's portrait hung at the far end of the hall – though he couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of the moth eaten curtains that had once secluded her from being privy to the movements of the rest of the house. He also couldn't help but notice that the house was even worse off than he remembered his version of 12 Grimmauld Place being eight years ago. Cobwebs clung to the banisters in thick, white sheets of sticky spider silk and seemed to descend down from the vaulted ceiling to spread across all available surfaces with pearly strands crisscrossing from one side of the hall to the other. The air that he had always noticed to have a stale quality to it with a repugnant twinge was far more repulsive than it had ever been.

Shutting the door behind him, Harry whipped out his counterpart's wand.

"_You there – yes, you, young man – what do you think you are doing?_"

"Taking over this house to suit my own nefarious purposes," Harry replied in a very matter of fact manner to Walburga Black's less than affable inquiry and cast a controlled cutting hex up the hall. Like a knife slicing through warmed butter, the cobwebs separated, providing him a clear path ahead. In order to keep from breathing in too much of the dust that had been disturbed, he sent a wind sweeping charm after his cutting curse, followed up by the few household cleaning charms that he had picked up on over the years in order to make dower living conditions just the slightest bit more bearable. "Much better."

It truly was. Though the cobwebs remained and the wallpaper was still peeling off of the walls, the air quality had been improved and the dust had been dispersed. Seeing as he was on a time clock, he wasn't about to take time to cast the necessary vanishing spells or repair charms that it would take to restore the hall to a shadow of its former glory.

"_Are you a Black, young man?" _

"My grandmother on my father's side was a Black," Harry gave the most acceptable answer that he could without lying, as he advanced up the hall with the full intention of making his way to the Black Library. He ignored the shrewd look that Walburga regarded him with, as he ascended the grand staircase. The old wood stairs warped and creaked under the pressure of his weight with his every step and echoed up through the floors of the house.

Harry paused on the top stair, as several loud bangs and various other noises indicative of the house waking from its slumber filtered down to him from the upper floors. Looking to the animated portrait of the sour faced Walburga Black, he asked about the one being in the house that might cause him trouble. "Is Kreacher around?"

Walburga tutted and turned her sharp nose up in the air in pointed disapproval. "_No, that blood-traitor son of mine freed him long ago._"

_A better fate than Sirius outright killing him for being the foul, little shit that he is. Then again, knowing Kreacher, death would have been a more acceptable option,_ Harry mused. Kreacher's fate in this world was inconsequential to him, however, as long as he didn't have to worry about crossing paths with the deranged house elf over the next few days. The rest of the living beings within the house – the ghouls, the boggarts, and whatnot – wouldn't bother him, as long as he didn't bother them, and should they cross paths, he was more than capable of taking care of them.

"_Why have you come here, little lordling?"_ Lady Black asked with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"Respectfully, Lady Black, that is my business and mine alone," Harry said, inflecting his voice with authority.

The painting pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose with disdain.

"Good day, my lady." Harry tilted his head in farewell. While exchanging a few polite words with the banshee would make his stay more pleasant – seeing as he wasn't about to start knocking down walls without Sirius's permission – he didn't particularly care to drag out their conversation. He had a mission to complete, after all.

Silence followed Harry, as he cleared the first floor hall in much the same way that he had cleared the entrance hall and headed directly for the familiar door that housed the Black Library. With the tip of the ash wand lit to provide him with a semblance of light, he caught sight of the drawing room door at the end of the hall. He froze in his steps, staring at the door, as a memory of what was housed within the room assaulted him.

_He was cold, so very cold. His gloved hands had gone numb hours ago, even stuffed in his pockets as they were – his right hand clutched around his wand, his left hand clutched around the object that was the reason for their trek up this hellacious mountain and their infiltration of a near impenetrable fortress. _

_They needed to keep moving, he knew. He knew that they needed to keep moving no matter what, knew that stopping meant that the enemy would have an even greater chance of locating them and dragging them right back up the mountainside to pay for their crimes against the Regime. Yet, they had had to stop. They had been forced to stop, and now they were boxed in – not by Voldemort's men, but by the weather. An unforeseen blizzard had descended upon them, leaving them trapped – stranded as sitting ducks for the Voldemort's wolves to sniff out and reveal their location._

_He huddled his shivering body closer to the rock wall of the shallow cave that they had taken shelter in from the onslaught of flurried snow. He could hear the chattering of teeth coming from his comrades deeper within the cave and the faint moans of pain from his wounded men, as their medic did her best to treat them. The howling wind beyond their shelter did nothing to drown out these sounds of suffering that came from within. In moments like these, where the future seemed especially bleak and their chance of survival was so infinitesimal that it was almost zero to none, he couldn't help but wonder if it was all worth it, or if resistance truly was futile._

_As things were, the second that they cast any sort of magic to better their situation, Voldemort would know exactly where they were and, blizzard or not, he'd send his best to come after them. The item that they had stolen from the Dark Regime was priceless. Its recovery would be paramount. In fact, they'd be lucky, if Voldemort, himself, didn't ascend upon them to retrieve the locket._

_He slipped the gold item from his pocket and upturned his frozen hand to look at the 1000 year old piece of history made into a vessel for a shard of the Dark Lord's soul. His eyes traced the curved 'S' on its gold face. The Locket of Salazar Slytherin. He had seen the memory of a young Tom Riddle ogling the item, as Hepzibah Smith had proudly displayed it to the charming young man, along with the Chalice of Helga Hufflepuff. That was the only time that he remembered laying eyes on the locket prior to four hours ago. Yet, there was something far more familiar about the weight of the locket resting in his hand than a brief glimpse of it in someone else's memory. It was almost as if he had held it once before, as if he knew what the frosted gold would feel like against his bare skin, despite having only ever handled it with gloved hands._

Harry pushed the memory away with force and shook his head in refusal to let it continue. He had been horrified to realize that he had not only held the locket before, but had had a hand in putting the horcrux into circulation on the black markets, which had ultimately led to Voldemort coming back into possession of it. The locket had been safe, protected, and in the hands of the Order of the Phoenix prior to him, Sirius, Mrs. Weasley, and the others tossing it aside and condemning it to be thrown out as rubbish during the summer prior to his fifth year at Hogwarts, when they had launched a cleaning crusade against 12 Grimmauld Place, in order to make the house habitable and functional as the Order's new headquarters.

The Resistance had lost nine of its best fighters throughout the mission to recover the locket. They had lost three men within the bounds of Castle Rohner, two more men had been lost during the blizzard (one to hypothermia and the other to his injuries), and an additional four men had been lost, as they had fought their way off of the mountain. That three of their dispatched squad had made it to the safe house in Vaduz alive, with the locket still in their possession, had been regarded as a huge success for the Resistance, as well as a miracle. The mission had been referred to as a suicide mission by pretty much anyone who had been asked to consider making the dangerous trek.

Without even being fully consciously aware of doing so, Harry stepped past the door to the Black Library and headed straight for the drawing room.

The door opened with an ominous creak and light flood Harry's vision, as the afternoon sun poured into the drawing room through the large, arched windows overlooking the street below. The room – the excess of cobwebs and dust aside – was just as he remembered it all those years ago, when he'd spent hours playing chess with Ron, joking around with the Weasley twins, and listening to another one of Hermione's well-meaning rants about SPEW and the importance of preparing for their upcoming OWLs.

"Better days, easier times," Harry murmured reminiscently, as he crossed the drawing room over to the ornate, glass fronted cabinet that had displayed the Locket of Salazar Slytherin in his world. The rattling of the writing desk, as he passed it and fought his way through the mass of cobwebs strewn throughout the room, didn't even faze him. It was just a boggart, he knew.

Prying the dusty, glass cabinet doors open, Harry's heart pounded rhythmically in his chest. He had been in the presence of six horcruxes throughout his life and had been a horcrux himself for many years. The objects were not foreign to him. The feeling of a hidden piece of soul was almost soothing, in that he associated it with being one step closer to Voldemort's ultimate destruction. Having a piece of Voldemort's soul in hand meant that he'd soon be purging that fragment of soul from its vessel and, by doing so, be purging a source of Voldemort's power from the mortal world. If that wasn't a comforting thought, he didn't know what was.

"No," Harry said, as he took in the dusty items contained within the cabinet. The Locket of Salazar Slytherin was missing. The place where it had once been on display was visible, due to the fact that it was the only space within the entire cabinet that was discernibly empty. _Something else might have sat in that space. The horcrux might not have ever been in this house,_ the rational side of his brain offered up in counter to his gut instincts telling him otherwise.

Harry shut the cabinet doors with a little more force than necessary, causing the glass doors to reverberate in their frames and dust to shower him in a wispy cloud of displaced particles. Coughing, he mentally berated himself for even bothering to check if the horcrux was in the cabinet. _This isn't why you're here. Getting home, if possible…that is what you're supposed to be focusing on. This world's horcruxes are this world's problem._

Having reprimanded himself for his impulsive action, Harry swiftly left the light of the drawing room with a purposeful stride and made his way back up the dim first floor hallway and directly to the Black Library. This was his mission.

Darkness enveloped Harry, as he stepped into the room. Lighting the tip of the ash wand once more, he sighed at the state of the library. It was just as bad as the rest of the house and would surely take him hours to clean, and seeing as he planned to spend a majority of the next two days in the room, he had every intention of cleaning it. He'd have to clean out the bathroom down the hall for his use during the duration of his stay as well. He wouldn't bother with the kitchen, however, as he could eat his meals out at a local pub with much less fuss.

Jeremy Adam, the man who he'd lifted a rather fat wallet of off on the way to the train station in Godric's Hallow, was buying for the time being. Judging from the number of ₤50 notes that the guy had been carrying and the tailored suit and polished shoes that the guy had been wearing, Adam could definitely afford being charitable, even if charity wasn't the guy's thing, as was evident from the arrogant, shithead attitude that the guy had carried himself with and the extremely self-centered thoughts that had flitted through the berk's mind. Adam's face, when the guy finally noticed that his wallet had been stolen, would have been worth seeing, as the guy had made for a distinctly satisfactory mark. Unfortunately, he had had a train to catch.

Knowing that there was nothing for it and that it was better to just get it over with, despite whatever lingering discomfort that ached through his body, Harry set to work on beginning the long process of vanishing the cobwebs draping the many floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the walls and plaguing the corners of the armchairs and sofa, as well as covering the chairs surrounding the rectangular, colonial style worktable and chest of maps. Once he had the cobwebs and dust somewhat under control, he could locate a more dependable source of light than maintaining _lumos_ while casting, preferably a few oil lamps. Things would go much smoother, though no less tedious, once he had. Household charms had never really been his forte. Their mind numbing nature didn't mix well with his accustom lifestyle or the general application of his magic in day to day use.


	8. Meeting of Minds

**Chapter 8 – Meeting of Minds**

Open books were strewn about the dimly lit library – flopped open atop the colonial worktable, left open for reference atop the seat cushions of the two antique armchairs and spread across the tufted back sofa, teetering open along the edges of the expertly crafted end table set between the two armchairs, and splayed precarious open atop the dark stained, dozen drawer chest of maps. The far right section of the floor to ceiling bookshelves lining the back wall of the Black Library was very nearly bear, as the tomes that had once occupied the section had been pulled from their shelves and scattered in a mess that had rapidly replaced the previous mess of cobwebs and dust that had afflicted the family library.

Amongst the mess of books, Harry sat on floor on the ornate rug, which defined the reading area within the library; his back leaned against the edge of the sofa behind him and his knee drawn up at an angle. His eyes darted across the pages of the hand written notes that he had taken in the leather bound journal that he had stolen from his counterpart.

Two days. Two full days had passed since he had woken up to find himself in this alternate world and had realized that his soul had somehow become displaced within time and space. He had spent a majority of the last 48 hours reading up on as much information as was available to him on dimensional divides and time travel, as well as rereading several tomes on soul magic. He had spent much of the last four hours meditating on the memory of his interrogation with James and their conversation that had followed about the other Harry's dreams.

It was worrisome, all very worrisome. The more that he had read and the more that he had thought about it; the more unlikely it seemed that the spell that Malfoy had hit him with back in his 'home dimension' had much of anything to do with his current predicament. The fact that the last vestiges of pain that had afflicted him since his arrival in this dimension had left him a little over nine hours ago had him all the more worried.

His soul had settled and had bonded with his counterpart's body.

Harry supposed that he ought to be happy, or at least relieved, about this development, considering that he had no clue what might have happened to him, if his soul had been rejected. Though, based from his previous knowledge and the research that he had conducted over the last few days, that particular outcome had always been extraordinarily unlikely, as Harry's body was his body for all intents and purposes – it had the same genetic code, had been occupied by a 'replica' soul, and had been used to conduct magic that was similar, if not an exact copy, to his own innate magic. The only things that truly differentiated him and his counterpart were their age, their memories, and the imprints on their magic that had accumulated throughout their lives. Soul transfers had been successful with less compatibility.

Harry sighed and scrubbed his right hand over his face, while using his left to keep the leather bound journal propped open against his knees. He had made a promise to James to do everything within his power to bring Harry back to the man. Yet, with the way things were shaping up, his counterpart was as good as gone, if not dead.

There were multiple theories on dimensional divides – why one might occur, what happens to the planes of existence after one does occur, and so on and so forth. However, there wasn't much research or actual experimentation done on the subject; at least not by wizards, or so the few books that Harry had access to at the moment claimed. If he remembered correctly, muggles _did _have a whole branch of science dedicated to the understanding of space and time, as well as proving the concept of alternate dimensions. Even if he were able to obtain a book or two on what the muggles had come up with on the subject, though, he doubted that he would find the information very useful or applicable to finding a way to reverse his situation. If there was one thing that he was certain of, it was that magic was the cause for his displacement and was the only possible fix. Muggle science could not rip a person's soul from his or her body and transport it into a version of the person in an alternate dimension – maybe one day in the far and distant future, but not at the current time. Therefore, muggle science was irrelevant as far as he was concerned.

Yet, magical knowledge on the subject was just as limited and unhelpful. If Harry wasn't mistaken in his understanding of what he had read, not only was dimension travel widely regarded as impossible, but soul transfers were more than a bit tricky and required power and concentration in levels that few were able to sustain. He didn't even want to contemplate the power or concentration required to transfer a soul across space and time – from one dimension to another – if such a feat were even possible. In general consensus of all the theories that he had read, dimensional divides occur naturally, when a decision is made that greatly affects the future. When a divide occurs, there is a split in the time-stream, allowing for all possible variants of the decision to play out in its own individual time-stream. The principles that dictate the occurrence of a dimensional divide makes dimensional divides highly unpredictable, as sometimes even the most minor decision, or what was believed to have been a minor decision by the decider, can have an enormous impact on the future. Due to the unpredictable nature of the occurrence of dimensional divides, traversing dimensions was regarded as being just as unpredictable and, in all likelihood, impossible. Without being able to pinpoint an exact destination within space and time, to attempt to travel between dimensions was suicide, as the chances of randomly 'hitting' upon an alternate time-stream were next to nothing, or so it was believed.

Harry had found this conclusion unacceptable, of course, seeing as time travel was apparently possible. Therefore, he had wasted a good six hours reading up on time travel as well and had learned why time travel was possible, when dimension travel was not. The answer turned out to be simple and quite logical. Time travel followed the time-stream that an individual exists within backwards, allowing the individual's time-stream to determine the individual's ultimate destination within space and time dictated by how far the individual desired to travel back within their time-stream. However, the principle behind time travel (as it was currently understood and applied) didn't allow for the time-stream to be varied, as the means of time travel, by tracing back through the time-stream, folded time back upon itself and essentially created a loop, meaning that the future would always be as the person remembers it before they traveled back, no matter what the person did in the past to try to change his or her future.

In conclusion, it seemed that Harry had once again managed to defy all known laws of natural existence. He had traveled through time without following his own time-stream back. He had traveled from one dimension to another, which was regarded as an impossible feat in and of itself. Lastly, his soul had been transferred out of his own body and into another without the accustomed ritual being performed by a third party – or so he had concluded, seeing as transferring a soul across dimensions was a feat even more impossible than someone physically traversing dimensions.

Head pounding and vision swarming, Harry leaned his head back against the edge of the couch. He hadn't slept in the last two day, as his research had taken priority over the necessity of rest. He had been more than aware from the moment that he realized that he wasn't in his own world that every second that he spent in this world was one more second towards him never returning home and Harry never returning to this world. However, sleep was now quickly creeping upon him and demanding his submission to Morpheus. At this point, after two straight days of nonstop research in his attempt to find a solution, he was willing to submit, as he was no closer to understanding what had happened and how to reverse it than he had been two days ago, and he wouldn't be any closer to the answer, even if he forced himself to remain awake for the next few hours.

_Harry found himself standing in the Gryffindor Common Room. The heat of a fire burning within the great hearth was warming his back and a black haired youth that was all too familiar too him was sitting before him in the worn, red armchair that he had favored all six years that he had attended Hogwarts. Looking down – having noticed that he was standing at his proper height, yet not able to remember why that was significant – he saw that he was dressed in his favorite pair of trusty jeans, his comfortable, military grade dragonhide boots, and a plain gray t-shirt with his vintage, leather jacket over top. Running his left hand over his right forearm and feeling through the leather of the jacket, he could make out the bulk of his wand holster and the distinct ridge of his wand. Quickly checking his belt, he found that his communication device and dagger were exactly where they ought to be, along with the rest of his supplies. _

_He was Porteur Demort, while the boy before him was Harry Potter._

How strange, _he thought to himself, as he looked to the boy. They weren't supposed to separate. Though he was Porteur, he remained Harry. He had been sure to hold on that over the years, as not to lose himself to his invented persona and become something worse than the enemy._

"_You wanted to come here," the boy in the armchair said nervously, fidgeting in his seat. He was looking to Porteur with a cross of uncertainty and fascination. "The other day," the boy clarified, "when you thought that you were dreaming." _

_Porteur raised an eyebrow at the boy, finding the reference strange for a reason that he couldn't quite understand. _Had he wanted to come here? Hadn't he set out with a company of men to track down the remaining enemy in London? How had he gotten to Scotland? The Kill Wards were still active in the Isles. _Yet, for some reason, he didn't find his situation all that alarming._

"_I…I just…well…" the boy bit his lip and lowered his gaze. "Y-you can take us somewhere else if you want. But it seemed like you really wanted to come here."_

"_Here is fine," Porteur said, cocking his head and studying the boy. Though the boy appeared to be a younger version of himself – back when he was just Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived – the boy was wearing an appalling plaid, button-up shirt tucked neatly into pressed, navy trousers that looked far more expensive than anything that he ever remembered wearing, as well as fit the boy properly, and, instead his accustomed bulky, circle rimmed glasses that had been the signature of his youth adorning the boy's face, the boy was wearing soft-cornered, rectangular, silver frames. Realization of who this boy was hit him like a punch to the gut. "You're James's son."_

_The boy nodded, confirming the statement as the truth that Porteur knew it to be._

"_This is a dream." _

_Again, the boy nodded. "Sort of, I'm not entirely sure. You're asleep – we're asleep – but I brought you here so we could talk. I've tried talking to you, when you're awake, but you're too strong and I can't get through."_

"_I've been trying to find you," Porteur said, as he mind began to consolidate this non-dream with his waking reality. "I've been trying to find a way to go home and bring you back."_

"_You can't go home," the boy said in a worried rush and stood, his arm outstretching towards Porteur, before abruptly stopping short of actually touching him._

"_No?" Porteur asked dangerously and eyed the boy speculatively, wondering what it was that the boy was playing at. "Are you going to stop me?"_

_The boy recoiled and shook his head vigorously. His green eyes flew wide behind his glasses and filled with fear, as he took a jerky step back. "N-no, sir. I-I didn't-t m-mean…"_

"_Spit it out," Porteur demanded, lacking patients after two days of little to no success. He wanted answers and clearly this boy knew something. _

"_Sir, y-you…" Again the boy choked up and shook his head._

_Porteur sighed. _He's a boy, a teenage boy who has been traumatized…by you. _"Right," Porteur said and forced himself to calm down and relax. Looking back at the boy, he motioned for the boy to sit back down. As the boy tentatively returned to the worn, red armchair, he pulled the other fireside armchair around to face the boy and sat down as well. "When you feel that you're able to do so, I need for you to tell me why I can't go home and what you know about all of this." He motioned to himself and then boy, before motioning to the room at large, all the while attempting to come across as personable as possible. This boy was delicate. "When you're ready, okay? It's very important."_

"_I'm not scared of you, not really," the boy said boldly, after take a moment to collect himself._

_It was a lie. Porteur didn't need to look inside the boy's mind to see that it was. He could practically smell the fear radiating off of the boy. "That's good," he said, deciding to allow the boy to put on a brave front, if that was what the boy wanted to do, "because you've nothing to fear from me. I won't hurt you. I don't hurt innocents."_

"_I know," the boy said a little too quickly, yet seemed to relax a bit as well. "I know you don't. You're good, though you sometimes don't think that you are."_

"_Good…Evil…" Porteur gave the boy a thin-lipped smile, "nothing and no one can be defined so clearly by such stringent terms. How I view myself is beside the point, however. Harry, I need to know what you know, so I can help us both."_

"_I only know what I saw," the boy said, once more looking hesitant, "…and what I felt."_

"_And what was that?" Porteur asked, his attention riveted on the boy._

"_You died."_

_The words were soft, barely even above a whisper, breathy and faint and filled with regret, or perhaps sorrow. The boy's eyes took on a watery sheen behind his glasses, as he bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling._

"_T-the floor collapsed…a-and…" the boy took a shuddering breath "and there was nothing to be done. Everything was shaking, and it was as if the entire building was coming down on top of you, and you were falling. That stupid spell didn't even hit you. I-I don't understand what happened."_

_As the boy spoke, what had been a faint memory became clearer to Porteur. No, the spell hadn't hit him. In fact, it had hit the floor several feet in front of him. He knew Malfoy's style well enough to know that that had been intentional and hadn't been a miss. Malfoy didn't miss by feet – inches, if his opponent was lucky, not feet. No, the spell hadn't even grazed him or his shield. What had thrown him back was a shockwave of ricocheting power resulting from the spell making contact with floor, which had most likely pulsed throughout the entire building, if his and the boy's memory of the event were anything to go by. _

"_Fucking suicide!" Porteur hissed in displeasure._

_Of course Malfoy would know that the end was mere days away for him and the few others who remained of the Regime. If they wanted to take their revenge against the Resistance, they didn't have long to do it, before they all ended up dead and in the ground. With nothing to lose, why not bring down a high-rise on top of himself and the one who had killed the Dark Lord and had essentially destroyed the Regime and ended their reign? Malfoy would be hailed a hero by his remaining comrades for having sacrificed himself to bring down the great Porteur Demort._

_Porteur let out an amused laugh, as he allowed the information to take. While he was, in a sense, deeply disappointed that he was dead and wouldn't get to see the rise of a magical Europe that was stronger and more united than it had been since the time of the Celts, there was a poetic justice in Draco Malfoy having been the one to do him in, along with having died alongside him and Ron (Though he still wasn't sure how many floors they had climbed, he sincerely doubt that – between plummeting through the destabilize floors and having the upper floors crashing down upon them – Malfoy or Ron had survived the collapse.). In a fitting end, they had died together just as they had grown up together, risen to power together, and had learned the meaning of the word 'enemy' from each other from the very first day that the three of them had dared to breathe the same air inside that small train compartment on the Hogwarts Express. _

"_Are you okay?" _

_Porteur looked to the boy who was him, yet wasn't him and sobered. He had more pressing issues to deal with at the moment than the poetic justice of his death, seeing as, though he had died, he wasn't exactly dead. Really, dead men were supposed to be dead. Non-dead men were living men, who had yet to die. It was all quite clear. Yet, it wasn't, as he wasn't dead and had, instead, woken up in a world that wasn't his own. Clearly, he had misjudged the severity and complexity of the situation. _

"_What happened after I died?" Porteur asked astutely. "Do you know?"_

_The boy shook his head. "When you…died, I woke up." The boy fidgeted with his hands in his lap and looked down at his interlaced fingers. "It was like always. I woke up from the dream. One second I was you in your world, feeling everything that you felt. The next second, I was awake and back in my own bed. But," the boy looked back up at Porteur, "but unlike all the other times that I've woken from one of my nightmares, it didn't really end. You were there. I could hear you thinking, feel everything you were feeling. I had no control over my body. You were in control, just like always. I tried to yell, to scream at you that I haven't gone anywhere, b-but just like in my dreams, you couldn't hear me."_

"_So you're here – in your body – with me." Porteur's thought were going a mile a minute, as he considered the implications of what it meant for him and his counterpart to both occupy the same body without one of their souls having been rejected from their forced cohabitation._

This is absurd. If I died, I ought to be dead! _Porteur thought fiercely. _I shouldn't be here making this boy more miserable than I already have. This is his body! His life!

"_You'll be able to fix this, won't you?" the boy asked, looking hopeful. "You always know how to fix things and make things you want happen. You can fix this, right?"_

"_No," Porteur said honestly. Ignoring the boy's dejected looking, he pressed onward. "Soul magic has never been wholly predictable. The only thing that I can think of to set this right is to exorcise my soul from your body, yet this isn't exactly a possession. My soul has settled in your body. My magic has bonded – if I'm not mistake – with your magic."_

"_You mean what Mayra said, right?" the boy asked. "My magic wasn't burning upon itself and neither was your magic. They were fusing together, weren't they?"_

"_It seems a logical assumption." Porteur nodded._

"_Wait!" the boy said, nearly jumping out of his chair, as his eyes flew wide with panic and he stared at Porteur with abject horror. "If your soul is exorcised, that means you'll really be dead!"_

"_Correction, kid," Porteur said. "If I could be exorcised, then I'd actually die, as I should have. However, as I said, this isn't exactly a possession. I seriously doubt that I could be exorcised, at least not without exorcising your soul as well. An exorcism focuses on eradicating a foreign presence from within a person's body. According to my soul, I'm not foreign to this body, and in a way, I'm truly not. Now, if I had to figure out a way to switch our souls back (had we traded bodies), we might have stood a chance of returning to our lives as we've known them. However, with our souls occupying the same body and our souls essentially being the same soul, we're shit out of luck."_

"_I don't understand," the boy said, a frown forming his lips and his brow knitted together in confusion._

"_While I need to do a bit more research to be certain," Porteur gave the boy an apologetic look, "I do believe that were stuck with each other…indefinitely."_

"_That's…" the boy began, only to pause and collect himself. "Okay. I can handle that." The boy nodded, as if to convince himself of what he was saying. "I mean, my life would only be slightly weirder than it was before, when you were only around in my nightmares, but we can work something out. We could take turns being…us. And you could teach me –"_

"_Harry," Porteur said sharply, cutting off the boy's ramblings, before the boy got ahead of himself. _

"_What?" the boy asked, startling at Porteur's tone._

"_When I said that we're stuck with each other, I meant it," Porteur said, giving the boy a meaningful look. "I've studied the Mind Arts at their greatest depth. Trust me. There will be no taking turns and living as separate entities. If we try, my stronger, more disciplined mind will win out over your weaker one or we'll both go insane._

_The boy's face fell and he looked down at his lap. "So that's it then?" the boy asked, his voice quavering._

"_Not necessarily," Porteur said delicately, hoping not to end up with a crying child on his hands. "Going with my gut on this, as I'll need to look up a few things to confirm or deny it, there might be a way to consolidate our existence and become a blend of each other as a single person."_

"_I could be you?" The boy's eyes flew wide, as the boy brightened considerably at the prospect._

"_And I you," Porteur said, not quite sure what to make of the boy's enthusiasm. "But like I said, I need to do some research. While the chances are very slim, we may still be able to remove me from you, meaning that you might –"_

"_NO!" the boy shouted. "I mean," the boy said hurriedly, "you can't want that."_

"_I can't?" Porteur asked, once more arching an eyebrow at the boy._

"_No, you can't," the boy said firmly._

"_I'm a mercenary, kid," Porteur said assuredly. "Death is my business and an accepted part of my life. If my dying as I should have died will give you your life back, I can damn well want it."_

"_I don't accept," the boy said, crossing his arms over his plaid covered chest, while attempting to look stubborn. "You dying is not an option."_

"_Your father will most definitely consider it the only viable option, until it proves not to be," Porteur said knowingly. If there was a way to get his son back, James would do what was necessary. He knew it and this boy knew it._

"_You don't know my father," the boy said with narrowed eyes. "He won't accept your death any more than I will, if there is another way. You've spent too much time in the presence of darkness and being ruthless out of the necessity to be ruthless that you've forgotten what the Light stands for."_

"_I'm not even sure that we can consolidate our existence," Porteur said softly, feeling the sting of the boy's comment. It was a known truth, but not one he often dwelled on, as the Light had died out in Europe years ago, taking many good men and women with it, before ruthlessness became the new policy of survival. Was he judging James to be more ruthless than the man actually was? Surely, if the man could get his son back and be rid of him, the man would jump at the possibility._

"_Then go do your research and be sure," the boy practically ordered, clearly set on the idea of consolidating their existence._

Harry gasped for air, as he came to. For an extended moment, he looked around wildly, taking in his surroundings with racing eyes and a pounding pulse. He was in the Black Library, still seated on the floor with his back propped against the edge of the tufted back sofa – just as he had been sitting prior to falling asleep. He put his right hand to the left side of his chest, as if the action would slow his speeding heart. As he did so, his eyes fell on the leather bound journal that had many of its pages already filled and several more blank pages yet to be filled.


	9. Conclusion

**Chapter 9 – Conclusion**

Light from two oil lamps set opposite each other at either end of the worktable washed the inked parchment spread out upon the wood surface with a gold hue, while a majority of the rest of the Black Library was, in turn, cast into shadowed darkness. Not that Harry noticed or cared about the dark edges of the room. Awareness of his surroundings was not a priority concern of his at the moment. The array spread out before him, on the other hand…

Harry had put hours into its configuration. He had spent the better part of a day researching its possibility and the better part of the last two days researching and formulating its reality. Every inked line of its construct had been drawn to perfection. Every rune had been masterfully accounted for and placed within the array at the precise location that would optimize its function. Every calculation had been made with potential backlash in mind and countermeasures added to drive the array in its purpose without disruption. Though he would not claim it as his greatest work, as it truly wasn't, it was definitely one of his more impressive derivations. The power the array could intake and direct was phenomenal.

"Curse it all!" Harry growled under his breath, slamming his fist down on the worktable in frustration, while making sure not to disturb the array.

_It's my soul,_ Harry thought fiercely. _I can do with it as I please. He has no say in whether I live or die. I've already lived my life, fought my war, and died an honourable death. This will just put things right._

Yet, his alternate self apparently did have a say in the matter. Harry still did not retrieve the ash wand resting a mere inch to the right of his clenched fist.

Harry sighed, hanging his head and leaning heavily into his palm and fist pressed atop the table.

The solution was right in front of him. At this point, it wouldn't take much – a spell, a few drops of blood, and a bit of pain. The whole thing would be over within a matter of seconds. Mission complete, James would have his son back.

_But for how long?_ That had been the essence of question that his counterpart had posed to him two nights ago, when he had informed the boy that he had found a way to extract his soul from the boy. They had argued and he tried to reason with the boy that the boy would finally be able to live a normal life with his family, who loved him dearly just as he was. Yet, just when he had thought that he might have had the boy persuaded, the boy had clammed up and had refused to listen to him, as a haunted look had entered the boy's eyes.

'_Just because you'll be dead doesn't mean that I'll be able to live a normal life…o-or even a very long one,' the boy had whispered fearfully, his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees. 'T-The things that have happened in your world are happening here, Porteur. The Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, B-Bertha Jorkins's death – it was in the prophet the other day that she's gone missing. He'll rise within the year. I know he will. He'll use the Triwizard Tournament to get to N-Neville, just as he used it to get to y-you. And all the rest – all the d-death, all the blood and f-fire, and all the pain – it will all just be a matter of time, won't it?'_

"Curse it all!" Harry shouted into the silence of the library, as his left hand clenching into a white knuckled fist in mirror of his right hand that was already fisted, his fingernails digging into his palms. This world wasn't his responsibility. He didn't know the people in it, nor did he care to know the people in it. He wasn't their Harry, and they weren't his _anything_. He didn't actually belong in this world. By all rights, he no longer belonged within the mortal world at all. He should be dead. He should have already moved on to his next great adventure, as Dumbledore had put it.

Harry snorted, briefly considering that maybe this was death and that this was his next great adventure, before derisively dismissing the idea. While he couldn't prove it, he knew damn well how he had come to be a displaced soul sharing a body that was not his own with an alternate, teenage version of himself. It all had to do with the Time-stream Layering Effect that would sometimes occur during a Dimensional Divide, the ancient magic of his mother's sacrifice colliding with the Killing Curse and releasing a blast of wild magic, and the advanced Soul Magic, as not one, but two living horcruxes were created the fateful night that Voldemort had murdered his parents and had marked him as the child of the Prophecy.

_Simple, so obvious._ Harry scowled, still irritated that he hadn't figured out what had caused him to traverse dimensions over four days ago, when he had initially read about the Time-stream Layering Effect. What James had described of his counterpart's nightmares had been so very similar to his own experience with slipping into Voldemort's mind, as he had slept at night, back before he had learn how to block the pathway that had existed between his and Voldemort's souls with Occlumency. It shouldn't have taken him reviewing the theories behind exorcisms, the aspects of horcrux creation, and the ritual arrays used in soul transfers to realize that his counterpart had somehow become a horcrux of his soul, just as he had been a horcrux of Voldemort's soul.

As soon as Harry had realized that particularly crucial fact, however, the rest had all fallen into place. The killing curse striking him, but having no apparent effect on him, other than leaving a jagged scar on his forehead; nearly the entire second story of his parents cottage being blasted off with the rebound of Voldemort's Killing Curse against the ancient magic of his mother's sacrifice, yet he hadn't been hit with so much as a splinter or been effect in the least by the explosion of wild magic, when Voldemort had been obliterated to a pile of ash; both of these things had bothered him significantly over the years, as his knowledge of magic expanded beyond spells and into understanding the very nature of the power that he and every other witch and wizard in the world commanded. Both phenomena were easily explained, he had come to realize, by the existence of alternate time-streams and a Dimensional Divide that had occurred that night, or possibly shortly before that night.

Harry had no clue exactly when the time-stream had fractured into its multiple possibilities, but he did know that the Time-stream Layering Effect had to have occurred during the Divide, as the newly formed time-streams couldn't have been distinctly separated from each other for what he knew had to have occurred to have occurred. As for what had occurred, or rather, what he believed to have occurred: in the moment that Voldemort's Killing Curse had struck him, the newly formed time-stream of his world had momentarily reconnected with the newly formed time-stream of this world, just as a shard of his soul had been ripped away from him by Voldemort's Killing Curse and he had been shunted through the rift between the two newly formed time-streams. As the resulting explosion of wild magic blasted the second story of his parents' cottage and obliterated Voldemort to a pile of ash, the shard of his soul that had been fractured by Voldemort's Killing Curse traveled through the rift as well and attached itself to his counterpart, instead of reattaching to him. As the wild magic began to settle back in his time-stream and the two newly formed time-streams truly began to separate and become individual realities he had been sucked back through the rift, as it healed, and placed back in his cot in his world, where the fractured shard of Voldemort's soul had proceed to attach itself to his own raw and vulnerable soul.

It was just a theory and Harry couldn't prove it, but he was certain that, at the very least, something to a similar effect had to have occurred. However, if there was one part of his theory that he knew without a doubt to be an absolute certainty, it was that his counterpart had been a horcrux of his soul. It was the only thing that explained the boy's dreams and why he had been pulled from his world and into the boy, instead of dying as he should have. There wasn't a lot of research regarding living horcruxes, and none regarding two souls as compatible and near identical as his and the boy's souls were sharing a body, but he was sure that it was possible for them to meddle together to become one consciousness, just as he was sure that the array before him would rip out his soul, while leaving the boy's soul wholly intact.

_If Neville had survived, would the Neville of this world eventually be faced with a similar choice?_ Harry wondered, before letting out a dry laugh. The war against Voldemort and the Dark Lord's Dark Regime had already been won in his world. The choice wouldn't have been even remotely similar.

Harry glared at the array, as if daring it to call him a coward for wanting to activate it. He wasn't a coward. He had faced more than his fair share of horrors in his life, but that was just it: his life was over. He had died. He was dead, or should be dead. Though he understood what the boy wanted from him, understood that his abilities and knowledge would be invaluable to this world's future, and understood that the boy was scared and felt powerless to stop what was coming on his own, he just couldn't get past the fact that he had actually died, but had still managed to cheat death. He had lost count of how many times that he had nearly died over the course of his life, as well as how many time that he had actually wanted to die. To die…he _had_ died. This life that he was living, it wasn't his own. It was the boy's life, the boy's existence that he was attached to…like a parasite, just as the shard of Voldemort's soul had been a parasite existing by his continued existence.

Yet, his counterpart wanted to welcome him and fuse their existence in to one true existence.

_Perhaps it is different, as I am him, in a way. We were once one and the same, before the time-stream split and life forged us into separate individuals, _Harry attempted to reason, pursing his lips and staring down at the array pensively. His and his counterpart's magic had fused already. The only thing keeping their awareness separate and the both of them sane was his constant employment of Occlumency to ensure that the boy's mind remained locked behind his own. Though, he was confident that should he desire to do so, he would be more than capable of integrating the boy into his awareness and, in turn, integrating his awareness into the boy.

"We'd both still exist, but not exist," Harry murmured, his brow furrowing. "We'd know who we had been, remember our lives, but neither one of us will be who we were. We'd be someone new, a blend of the both of us."

If Harry were being entirely honest, the idea of taking on the role of an insignificant teenager and having many people that he would love and care about be, once more, under threat of the Dark Regime scared him just as much, if not more, as the prospects of fighting a bloody and all encompassing war that he had already experience in all its depravity and had fought eight long years, before finally bring about its end in his world. Too many had died – too many that he had cared about and too many that he hadn't even known – which meant that there were far too many innocents to be saved in this world and that many would meet a similar fate to the one that they had met in his world. Bertha Jorkins already had. Really, things would be so much simpler for him – easier and less emotionally taxing – if he just activated the array and departed to the afterlife, as he should have departed from mortal existence five days ago. He had earned his peace, hadn't he?

'_What is right isn't always easy. More often than not, it is the most difficult thing in the world, but we must hold onto our morality or we'll have nothing left in the end, my boy. I fear there are still many hard days ahead of you. Do not turn your back on what you know it is right, Harry. Always remember that you are more than what you believe yourself to be. It isn't only your magic that makes you strong; it's your force of will and your sympathetic heart. Do not close your heart to the innocents in need. Do not bow because you fear that not to do so would be to break. You are better than that. Both you and I know it.'_

_Damn you, Dumbledore,_ Harry thought, cursing his old mentor to the fiery pits of Hades. Merlin knew how he wanted to walk away from this. One war was one too many for any man's lifetime.

In a fit of frustration, and in resignation of the inevitable, Harry swiped up the ash wand that he had been unable to bring himself to pick up earlier. With a flick and a downward cut, the array spread out before him was ablaze with flames, quickly turning to a blackened pile of ash. While he knew that he could just reconstruct the array from his notes, he knew that he most likely wouldn't be doing so.

"You know, I actually liked that table."

Harry's head snapped up and he raised the ash wand, ready to attack or defend, as his eyes scanned the darkness of the room for the intruder. Looking past the slowly dwindling flames to the door of the library, he saw a tall figure leaning lazily in the open doorframe. The man was easy enough to identify, especially in this house. He had seen his godfather stand exactly so many times before within the Grimmauld Place of his world. If the man was anything like his Sirius, he had to wonder just how long the man had actually been standing there, before the man had chosen to make his presence known.

"Where's James?" Harry demanded, eyeing the man warily and forcing himself to put up a mental barrier, so to speak, between the reality of the man before him and his memories of his godfather.

"At work," the man answered, stepping into the room with his hands held up to show that he didn't have his wand in hand.

"How convenient," Harry observed. Upon Sirius coming within a few feet of the table, he angled the ash wand purposefully. "That's close enough."

"He's worried about you," Sirius said, holding Harry's gaze unyieldingly, yet respecting the boundary set and not pushing forward even another half step.

"He'd have known better than to send you to check up on me without him being present as well," Harry said accusingly. James wasn't an idiot. He knew from the way that the man had regarded him that the man knew that he was plenty dangerous. James wouldn't have risked Sirius's safety by sending the man alone.

"Are you going to put that out?" Sirius cast a quick glance at the still smoldering table.

"And take my eyes off you," Harry smirked, "not a chance."

"More than a little paranoid, aren't you?" Sirius asked with his own smirk.

"How'd you find me?" Harry asked, ignoring the obvious answer to the man's question.

"James isn't the only one in the family that Harry has talked to about his dreams," Sirius said meaningfully. "After…well, he told me about being here once. It took me and Remus a while to check several other more likely locations in trying to find you. But going on five days now, I figure that I might as well check here, even if you shouldn't have been able to get past the wards without my knowledge."

"My godfather willed the entire Black Estate to me." Harry gave a one shouldered shrug, while keeping the ash wand trained steadily on Sirius. "It's unfortunate that I never got to thank him. I never would have dared to delve into the Dark Arts without having a whole library of questionable books at my disposal. Hogwarts's restricted section just really doesn't cut it." _Only one mention of a horcrux in passing with no actual information pertaining to what a horcrux is or how one is made._ "At least, not since Dumbledore took over for Dippet."

"Mind if I ask what you were working on?" Sirius asked, nodding to the blackened surface of the worktable.

"Not that you'll believe any of it, but my notes are over there," Harry inclined his head to the end table between the two armchairs, where the leather bound journal containing his work so far was resting.

Cautiously and without turning his back on Harry, Sirius took the few steps over to the reading area and retrieved the journal, before bring it back over to the worktable, where the oil lamps would provide ample light for him to look over what the journal contained. He only paused long enough for Harry to give him approval to approach, as he crossed the previous boundary of approach that Harry had set.

Surprise flitted through Harry, as the man flipped the journal open atop the worktable to its very first page and began reading – reading, not just skimming.

Several minutes of silence passed, as Sirius read page after page and Harry watched him, not quite understanding why the man was even bothering reading over information and theories based upon his existence as an individual separate from his counterpart, when the man had made it more than clear that he believed him to be a symptom of his counterpart's supposed illness and not an actual person. As the man continued read over his notes, not saying anything at all, Harry did not lower the ash wand even a fraction of an inch. Though he did not know or understand Sirius's motivations for actually reading his work, he wasn't about to be lured into a false sense of security. His days of being so easily played were long past. If the man thought that pretending to show an interest in his work would cause him to drop his guard, the man was sorely mistaken.

"James knows you're here, doesn't he?" Sirius asked eventually, not looking up from his reading.

Harry remained silent. James had done right by him. As he had kept his end of their deal and had sent an encrypted message after the first two day had past, the man had sent him back a letter telling him to do what he thought was best for him and Harry and hadn't bothered him since. He wasn't about to implicate the man. He suspected that Lily was already pissed enough at James, as he suspected that the man hadn't listen to him and had pressed the issue of his existence.

"This is some pretty heavy stuff," Sirius commented, seemly satisfied with Harry's non-answer.

_Yes, because one traverses space and time by casting lumos followed up by a summoning charm and attempting to apparate,_ Harry thought snidely. "All in five days' work," he said instead with a nonchalant air.

Sirius made a noise of disbelief. "You'd have to know your stuff to put all this together in five days. This is hardly the work of an amateur."

"I never said that it was." Harry grinned like the cat that had caught the canary, as the man looked up at him with wary, calculating eyes. "Though, it is interesting that you understand what you're reading and are able to give such an assessment."

"This is _my_ library," Sirius retorted stiffly.

"As it is _mine_ where I come from," Harry said, his grin widening. "And if you understand that," he indicated to the open journal, "you understand just what it means that I passed through the wards here unhindered, don't you? That's why you've not brought up St. Mungo's like you had planned to upon finding me and are instead reading over my research, no?"

"The access permissions can be simulated." Sirius's gaze traveled back down to the journal with uncertainty.

"But not easily," Harry argued back. "It would take years for a warding system this complex."

"He's been exposed to me enough." Sirius shook his head. "It's possible that he did it unconsciously, a little at a time, enough that I didn't notice. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"You have doubts and a reasonable explanation is before you." Harry nodded to the journal. "Is it really so hard to believe that maybe I'm not crazy, you're godson isn't crazy, and James isn't insane for believing us, when we say that we aren't?"

"But dimension travel?" Sirius said, as if the concept was simply inconceivable.

Harry reached across the table and flipped the journal open to the portion that contained his theory on just how he might have done the inconceivable. "Read," he practically growled at Sirius, his face mere inches from the man's face and his eyes hard and commanding. If he could get Sirius to believe the truth, it would make his life just that much easier, especially with what all that needed to be done, if he was going to merge with the boy and attempt to get ahead of the war and stop Voldemort, before the Dark Regime's reign spread any further than Britain. As he had discovered in his world, Voldemort already had European supporters. Everything had been lined up for Voldemort's progressive takeover of Europe, during Voldemort's long years of travel, prior to his return to Britain and application for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post at Hogwarts. All Voldemort had left to do was to establish a firm and indisputable base of control in the British Isles. With the fear created by his first rise to power and the Ministry's stupidity in allowing Death Eaters to buy their way out of Azkaban and return to being influential members of society, the Dark Lord only had one man to kill and one prophecy to try to obtain, before that indisputable base of control would be establish by him and his Death Eaters in a less than a fortnight.

Just thinking about all that needed to be done had Harry stepping away from the worktable and pacing. The first step, of course, would be to successfully merge with the boy. But after that he would need to shut down the Kill Wards that had already been laid in Britain, or alter them somehow – the massive, all encompassing wards had cost more lives and caused more ambushes than opened battle, covert infiltrations, and narks had. He couldn't risk Voldemort activating them early. He just couldn't. All would be lost, if the wards went active, while they were still under Voldemort's control.

There were also the horcruxes to deal with – three of which Harry didn't know the location of, an additional two that needed to be confirmed, and two more in know locations that would be somewhat easy to access (or so he believed that they were). The Diary of Tom Riddle and the Locket of Salazar Slytherin, those were two horcruxes in his world that he should have known the location of had the events in this world not transpired differently from the events in his world. The Chalice of Helga Hufflepuff was the one horcrux that he had never learned the original location of in his world, having finally gotten his hands on the blasted thing in Slovakia. Where it was located in Britain was a complete mystery to him. As for the two that needed to be confirmed, both were living horcruxes and would take delicate handling. The last two, on the other hand, he could probably obtain both in a day, if they were where he knew them to have been in his world. Though, the Ring of Peverell was a bit iffy at the moment, even if it was in the Gaunt's hovel. If Voldemort was using Riddle Manor, as the Dark Lord had in his world during his forth year, it might end up being wiser to leave the Ring alone for the time being, as to not risk tipping off Voldemort, while he still had at least five other horcruxes of questionable accessibility.

Then there was the matter of him needing galleons, lots of galleons, lots of galleons preferably stored outside of Gringotts and in a secure, base location. An economic collapse due to the goblins being a self-preserving race of complete and utter bastards had been widely devastating to not only the Resistance, but to –

"No way in hell! Absolutely not!"

Harry halted in his pacing and looked to Sirius, only to find Sirius staring back at him with wide, startled eyes.

"You were going to try to exorcise yourself?" Sirius demanded fiercely, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Glancing to the journal quickly, Harry saw that Sirius had moved past his theory on his dimension travel and on to his plans on how he could to separate himself from Harry. "A controlled exorcism, combining a reverse soul transfer and –"

"No." The word was firm and not open to any form of rebuttal.

"What?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing with a combination of shock and confusion.

"You do this," Sirius jabbed his finger angrily at the journal pages, "you die."

"You know, you lot really need to get over that," Harry said exasperatedly. He had already argued hours on end with his counterpart and, after arguing hours on end with his counterpart, he felt like he had also argued hours on end with James, as his counterpart had never failed to bring 'their father', as the boy had begun to refer to James, into the conversation. "It's my soul –"

"No," Sirius said once more in clear refusal, his eyes fierce and determined. "I don't give two shits what you consider to be your rights regarding your soul. I won't let you do it. If I'm reading all this right, you're my godson, truly my _godson!_ I held you right after you were born. Do you understand?"

Harry drew a sharp breath and his heart tripped over itself in his chest, as the man's words hit him and comprehension quickly followed. "I burned the array," he managed to get past his suddenly parched throat in a whisper. He had lost his chance with his godfather. His godfather had died seven years ago. _No, no, no,_ his mind chanted, refusing to allow the man before him to be the same man who held him after he was born, as long buried emotions threatened his control. He couldn't accept it. He just couldn't. He had already dealt with the man's death: the guilt, the pain, the remorse. Yet, the man was that man. According to his theory, the man was truly one and the same. The man was his godfather, who had held him, and was now standing before him, alive and vibrant with indignation at what he had planned to do. They had been separated, when the time-stream split, but now…

"And after I show this to James," Sirius looked down at the journal with disgust, before looking back up with a dare in his eyes that challenged Harry to try and counter his decision, "I'm burning it."

"If I don't use that array, Sirius…" Harry choked out, still finding the ramifications of the man's words hard to deal with, but needing Sirius to understand that things weren't so simple. He and his counterpart would be forever changed. The array would be the only way that James and Sirius would ever get his counterpart back.

"You and Harry won't exist, but you will," Sirius said confidently, his face earnest and filled with understanding. "You'd know who you were. You'd just be a version of the both of you, affected by both of your memories, yet still Harry Potter, _my _godson."

"So, you believe us?" Harry couldn't help but asked, as the man stared at him in a way that no one had in a very long time. People had gotten over the need to protect him years ago.

"Yes, Harry," Sirius said softly. "I believe you."


	10. Reset

**Chapter 10 - Reset**

Nimble fingers turned ink riddled pages; leather binding propped against elegantly crossed legs; head cocked slightly to the right; brow furrowed in concentration; gray eyes passed back and forth, taking in haphazardly scrawled script. The oil lamp set upon the end table beside the armchair that the dark haired man was sitting in cast a contrast of gold hue and elongated shadows across the man's lean figure, accentuating his aristocratic features and providing ample light for the man to read by.

Harry's gaze took in the subtle emotion that would briefly morph Sirius's features, as the man reviewed his notes more closely than the man had done before. The fractional upturn of the corners of the man's lips, when the man found something to be pleasing; the barely noticeable nod, when the man agreed with something that he had written; the hardening of the man's eyes, when the man came across a reference to something that was no doubt nefarious in nature; nor did he miss the slight hesitation that caused the man's hands to tremble and fumble noticeably at the pages, when the man found something to be disturbing, or that the man would pale and his lips would pull tight into a scowl for the very same reason.

"Not that I necessarily mind, but is there a reason for all the staring?" Sirius asked into the silence of the library and looked over to Harry, who was seated on the far end of the sofa opposite him with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes trained intently upon him.

"I'm attempting to assimilate and accept that you are alive," Harry stated simply.

"And how is that going?" Sirius asked with interest.

"No worse than attempting to accept that I am a scrawny 14 year old for a second time in my life." Harry grimaced. "Physically, at least."

"Not well then." Sirius smiled sympathetically. "How old were – are you…mentally, I mean?"

Harry sighed and ran a hand through 'his' unruly hair. The act was one of habit and now served as a very predominate reminder that the body that he occupied wasn't the one that truly belonged to him. For the last four years he had kept his hair trimmed short, as conditions had made his messy strands a pain to manage, especially with his hair grown past his shoulders, like it had been prior to him having had to cut it. Though, admittedly, he did prefer his hair long, despite having kept it short – a fair bit longer than his counterpart's hair currently was, yet not so long that reached anywhere near his mid-back.

"I had turned 23 about a month back," Harry said, answering Sirius's question.

"Nine years," Sirius said pensively, as if considering what nine years into the future might look like.

"You have no idea," Harry said with a gravity that had Sirius looking at him with deep concern. _You don't want to know,_ he thought, as Sirius held his gaze with unmasked questions alight in his eyes. _You don't want to know the detrimental difference those nine years had on my world's future and could have on yours. You don't want to know just how far human depravity can go._

As Sirius opened his mouth to ask a question that Harry knew with certainty that he wouldn't be willing to give an answer to, the man's mouth snapped back shut. In a single, fluid motion Sirius stood, closed the journal that had been open upon his lap, and set the journal aside on the corner of the end table.

"James?" Harry asked knowingly.

Sirius nodded. "I'll bring him up," the man announced needlessly, before leaving the library with swift footfalls.

Harry let out a slow breath, as he heard Sirius descending the stairs. With Sirius out of the room, he felt like he could breathe again. "Fuck," he whispered to the empty library and hung his head, his shoulders hunching. He had seen death - had been its executioner and its prey – and had grieved for many losses in his life. Yet, through it all, it had been his godfather's death that had affected him on a deeply personal level that all but a few other deaths had done, and none so severely. To see the man alive in this world brought up old memories and emotions that he'd rather not explore and had thought that he had dealt with long ago.

The night that Sirius had died in his world had been one of the most emotionally painful nights of Harry's life. He had lost something that night and not just his godfather, but a piece of himself. The naïve boy that had thought that maybe, just maybe he would one day get to be normal and have a family of his own, like everybody else; the naïve boy that had still believed that adults, like Sirius and Tonks, were strong protectors and couldn't possibly fall to the enemy's wand; the naïve boy that had had the naïve hope that it wouldn't come down to him and Voldemort in the end, despite all the evidence to the contrary… that the naïve boy; he had died that night along with his loving godfather, never to be seen or heard from again. Sirius's death hadn't been just the loss of the only man that he had ever remembered viewing as a parent of sorts, but the loss of the last vestiges of the child within him that he had been so desperately clinging to. If asked when Porteur Demort first began to take form within him, he would say that Porteur was born into his infancy at the precise second that Sirius Black slipped through the Veil of Death in the Department of Mysteries of the British Ministry of Magic.

_You're dwelling,_ Harry chastised himself, knowing better than to allow himself to brood about what he could not change. _There is only the future and what one does with it, _he asserted his motto firmly within his mind. It was this world that had yet to know the terror of Voldemort's second rise to power that he needed to focus on. It was this world full of innocents that his counterpart had essentially argued for him to stay and protect. It was this world with an _alive_ Sirius and an entire family of Potters that he would be joining, should James release him from his current mission objective in agreement with his counterpart and Sirius's stance on the matter of his continued existence.

Hearing the two distinctly different, yet somewhat similar sets of footsteps ascending the grand staircase and voices approaching the library, Harry pulled himself from his thoughts with resolution set within his mind and heart. As in his world, where Sirius was dead and he had had to deal with that fact; in this world, Sirius was alive and he was just going to have to accept that the man walked, talked, and breathed, as a living person ought to.

Harry looked around towards the library door just in time to see the silver, snake head that was the doorknob turn – the light from the lone oil lamp that resided on the worktable reflecting off of its scaled surface – and the door push open. Sirius entered the library first, followed by James, who was carrying a paper sack that smelled absolutely mouthwatering.

James smiled upon catching sight of Harry, the man's worn features transforming from a state of anxiety to relief in a matter of seconds. "Tom's beef stew?" he asked uncertainly, lifting the sack the slightest bit in offering.

Harry could not have prevented the moan of delight from slipping past his lips, if he had even had the presence of mind to. He was up off of the sofa and taking the sack over to the recently repaired worktable, before either James or Sirius could take an additional step into the room. _Six, seven years since I last had Tom's stew – possibly longer? _he questioned, while removing the three bowls of beef stew and dumplings that were under a stasis charm from the sack. He set the three bowls out on the table, conjured the necessary silverware, and eagerly pulled up a chair.

"Mmm…" Harry closed his eyes, savoring the burst of beefy flavor and spices washing across his taste buds, upon taking his first bite of the steaming sustenance. "Tom always did make the best stew," he said appreciatively, as he opened his eyes and looked to James and Sirius, who had yet to move and were merely watching him curiously. "Sit, eat," Harry commanded, indicating to the two bowls of stew set before the empty chairs across from him with his spoon.

As the two men did as directed, both continued to watch Harry proceed to take another bite.

The silence that followed James and Sirius joining Harry at the worktable was one only broken by the muffled sounds of chewing and a spoon periodically scraping against the basin of one of their bowls, as well as a few murmurs indicating each man's enjoyment of the meal.

"Sirius said that you have news," James prompted, after a short while, when most of the stew had been eaten.

Harry rested his spoon against the side of his near empty bowl and looked up at James, who sat directly opposite him. "I've located Harry, as well as formulated a way to remove myself from him and restore him to his previous state of being."

"_But,_" Sirius interjected, setting down his spoon and looking to James as well. His eyes and his tone were opposing. "If he goes through with the rite, he'll _die_."

"_Thank you_, Sirius," Harry said, glaring at said man and ignoring the way James's eyes had brightened with hope, only to dull mere seconds later. "I was getting to that."

"I think I would like for you to start at the beginning," James said to Harry, while forcibly keeping his voice calm. "When I last heard from you, you were working on figuring out how dimension travel was even possible. If you could tell me where my son is and –"

"Harry's safe," Harry assured and reached up to tap the side of head. "He's right here…with me."

"With you?" A perplexed look knitted James's brow.

Harry nodded. "The way that he explains –"

"You've talked to him?" James leaned forward in his chair, his eyes keen and demanding. "How is he?"

"In a constant state of being ticked at me, or otherwise fascinated by me and enthusiastic about actually being able to speak with me," Harry said truthfully. "As for him being 'with me', I should probably rephrase that and say that he's my host and I'm his guest. The way that he explains what he is experiencing is that it's like he's in one of his dreams, only the dream hasn't ended and I've taken control of his body, instead of the dream being set back in my world with me in control of my own body."

"So you're both…?" James looked Harry up and down meaningfully.

Harry nodded.

"Is that even –" James glowered and his eyes narrowed at Harry in scrutiny, as if he might find some visible abnormality resulting from the cohabitation of two souls within a single body. "That's not possible…is it? That shouldn't be possible."

"To be honest, if I weren't a master Occlumens and hadn't instinctually taken control of the situation, this body would have gone into an epileptic fit the moment that I invaded it. Two souls coexisting within the same body isn't possible, no," Harry said in answer to the man's staggered question. "The clash of commands coming from two conscious and definitively separate entities within a single physical form would be enough to cause insanity at best and death at the worst."

"As long as you stay in control, you'll both be fine?" James asked, no longer even attempting to hide or contain the worry afflicting him.

"As long as I remain in conscious control, I can maintain the barrier between our minds, keeping us both safe and sane," Harry said confidently.

"So Harry is safe?" James sought confirmation.

"As safe as I am," Harry told the man.

Upon James looking sideways at him, Sirius nodded, giving his own confirmation. "I've looked over his research and know a bit about what he's talking about. They're both just fine, as they currently are. We'd know, if they weren't."

"You said something about a way to remove yourself?" James looked back to Harry. Though he appeared to be convinced of his son's safety, his question was hesitant and filled with uncertainty.

Harry nodded. "It would essentially be a controlled exorcism aimed at a specific target rather than a general targeting of a foreign presence. I've combined a reverse soul transfer array with one of the older exorcism rites. The array that I've formulate is as foolproof as it can be. Once the magic is activated, only my memories along with my affiliated soul will be attacked, differentiating myself from Harry's soul and memories and allowing me to be recognized as a foreign presence. Though I've made it as safe as I can for Harry, he still might feel a bout of pain, when the portion of my magic that went into binding with his magic is ripped away. And as Sirius was so quick to point out," he said, before Sirius could interject and point out the cost of using the array for a second time, "the end result will not only be your son's individual existence being restored, but my death."

James looked distinctly uncomfortable and lowered gaze to the table, his hope and desire for his son's return causing him shame.

"I wasn't even going to ask," Harry said, his tone cautious, yet gentle. "I was going to activate the array and be done with it. In my opinion, my soul is mine to do with as I please. However, Harry has requested something of me, and while it's not something that I want to do necessarily or something that would be ideal for any of us, I can't ignore his request."

James looked up at Harry, his eyes torn by internal debate.

"While I can remove myself from your son and allow him to return to his normal life," Harry said carefully, "that isn't the only option. It doesn't have to be me or him, James. If you allow it, I can merge with Harry."

"Merge?" James frowned, looking for all the world as if the concept was beyond him.

"What would happen is that I would take your son's memories into my mind, while passing my memories into his mind in a constant flow. I'd have to do it in a quick, controlled stream without giving my mind or his mind time to identify the memories as being someone else's memories and not our individual own. As our minds begin to reflect each other, our souls will become reflections of each other as well. Our magic has already fused, so it shouldn't take much, as the only thing that truly defines us at the moment are our memories. Once that barrier is gone, by the very nature of existence, our souls will desire to return to being a single soul, fused as one to become a single entity experiencing its own unique existence." Harry indicated to his counterpart's body. "We'd retain who we were, though the person that would inhabit this body would not be the person that I am before you or the person you remember your son to be. He would be a blend of the both of us."

"I thought you said that you had to maintain the barrier between your minds or you could both go insane or die," James said with confusion.

"I do," Harry affirmed. "However, I'm not talking about just chucking aside the barrier between our minds and allowing our minds to smash together. What I'm proposing to do is something that few other practitioners of the Mind Arts would even begin to consider, let alone be capable of. I'm talking about a controlled and steady exchange of memories to the very depths of the subconscious and reaching beyond the mind to touch the soul. I use the word merge in a very contextual sense, Mr. Potter."

"Harry wants this?" James asked, despite looking as if he hadn't quite comprehended what Harry had just told him. "He wants to merge with you?"

"He is very against my death," Harry said earnestly, while holding James's speculative gaze.

James nodded, accepting the answer without even a fraction of a doubt.

"Though now is not the time to discuss it…" Harry glanced briefly to Sirius, before returning his focus to James. "Harry has requested that I stay so that our merged-self can work towards preventing what happened in my world from happening here in your world. There are already several likenesses between our worlds that are quite troubling." Harry held up a hand, suspending James and Sirius's questions on the subject. "Now is not the time, but I just thought that you," he looked directly at James, "would at least like to know your son's reasons for wanting to merge with me. Not only has he become attached to me over the years, he's scared of this world's possible future and with good reason."

"And this decision – what happens to both you and him – is in mine to make?" James stated with only a hint of a question in his voice.

"While I would like to tell you to take the time that you need," Harry gave James an apologetic look, "the longer that a decision isn't made, the more difficult it will be to remove myself from your son, if that is your final decision. Every second I remain here, is one more second my soul has to get comfortable and connect within your son's body."

"If I decide on the rite," James drew an unsteady breath and let it out, "will you still provide the information that you promised me back at the house?"

Sirius looked to James, surprised by the question, before looking to Harry expectant of an explanation.

Harry reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a small glass vial with a silvery substance inside. He held it up, but made no move to give it to James. "I made a memory to explain what you'll see, as well as organized the memories in order of importance. Harry was to give it you, after I had gone. I figured this would make things easier and perhaps more believable than writing it all out. Dumbledore would most likely be more than happy to allow you to use his pensieve, especially if you asked him to join you in viewing the memories. Trust me. To do so would be less traumatic than administering them into your mind directly."

"If I decide on the merge?" James questioned.

Harry pocketed the vial. "The information that I deem important will be passed on to you, when it becomes necessary for you to know it. Otherwise, what I know will stay locked securely within my mind. Harry and I are in agreement on this. While he would be powerless to do anything about the events to come and would need you and Dumbledore to at least try to avoid the catastrophe of my world's war, should he and I merge the more effective thing would be to keep the information to ourselves and act on it as we deem fit, as it is quite sensitive. If Voldemort even hears so much as a whisper of it, the future of all of Europe would be at risk."

"I know you said now was not the time," Sirius began, looking from Harry to James and back to Harry with uncertainty, "but will you answer me one question?"

Harry motioned for Sirius to ask what he wanted to ask.

"As Voldemort is currently presumed dead and has been for the last twelve, almost thirteen years, how long do we have before he returns to the status of alive and this war that happened in your world breakouts here in our world?" Sirius's eyes bore into Harry intently.

"A little less than a year," Harry said solemnly. "If events follow the events of my world, by the end of June, he'll have restored himself to a body."

Sirius sat back in his chair, visible anxiety straining his face and tensing his muscles. "You won your war?" he asked stiffly.

Harry nodded. "It wasn't a true victory, considering all that had been lost over the course of the war, but we did win in the end. Voldemort was dead, we were rounding up the last of his followers in the British Isles, and Eastern Europe was in the process of rebuilding, while much of Western Europe was assessing damages and preparing to do the same. I was actually supposed to meet with leaders of several nations to decide the fate of the nations whose governments had supported Voldemort from the start of his campaign for power…yesterday, I do believe."

"I need to take a walk," James said, standing abruptly.

"Would you like me to come with you?" Sirius offered, looking up at James with concern.

James hesitated, casting a brief glance at Harry, before nodding in answer to Sirius's question.

"The journal stays here," Harry said firmly, as Sirius stood instantly at James's acceptance of company and took a step towards the reading area, the end table with the journal of his research in particular.

"Your _father_," Sirius stressed the word with complete seriousness, upon turning back to face Harry, "has the right to know what those pages contain. You've told him some of it, but not all of it. He deserves to know the truth, Harry."

"Sirius, he's not…" James began to say, but trailed off, upon realizing that Harry was merely staring as Sirius, as Sirius stared back at him, not correcting Sirius or protesting that calling him, James, his father was disrespectful to his parents' deaths in his world, nor remarking about the use of his given name over the use of Porteur.

"Very well," Harry said, calmly holding Sirius's unyielding gaze, and tilted his head to the journal in permission. Sirius was right, of course. James had every right to know what he had discovered in regard to what had caused him to travel dimensions, as well as know about the research that he had done, while trying to finding a way to restore his counterpart. He hadn't deemed the information relevant to James's decision regarding his and his counterpart's future existence and had figure on telling the man what the journal contained later on, when time wasn't crucial, or that Sirius would do so, once he had activated the array that he had designed and was gone from the world – though he seriously doubted that the latter would occur. Sirius, however, seemed to believe that the information was of great importance and that James need to know it now, not later. _Not to mention, he's right in that the same principle that applies to him, applies to James._ _For at least the first year of my life, our time-streams were one and the same, making James just as much my father, as the James Potter that I knew to be my father in my home world was. Only, like this Sirius, this James Potter is alive, _he thought with a weary sigh.

"We'll be back within the hour," James said, giving Harry an odd look, as Sirius grabbed the journal off the end table.

"I want your decision by then," Harry said, looking up at James. "I want this done and over with tonight, whichever way it goes."

"Of course," James said, the conflict consuming him flashing across his face.

Without an additional word exchanged between them, James left the library with Sirius trailing after him. Upon the door clicking closed behind the two men, Harry stood and stretched. His counterpart was right about James. The man was far less ruthless than he had estimated the man to be. He fully expected the father to return well before the hour was up, resolved that he and his counterpart ought to merge. Sirius on the other hand… Well, Sirius had certainly been a surprise. The version of Sirius that he had known in his world had condemned the Dark Arts and had sworn quite vehemently that he would have nothing to do with them. This Sirius, however, had obviously studied the Dark Arts and had put an effort into studying them, as the man knew and understood far too much to have just perused a few Dark Arts books over the years. It was a curious discovery.

_Did he change his opinion of the Dark Arts from his Gryffindor youth in this world? Or had my parents' murders and his time in Azkaban in my world caused his deep hatred of the Dark Arts?_ Harry pondered, as he vanished the bowls of stew and set about cleaning up the books that he had managed to scatter all across the library.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"You're certain?" Harry asked, looking up at James from his position on the sofa, where he had ended up sitting down and reading avidly, upon getting distracted by one of the books that he had been in the process of putting away not five minutes after James and Sirius had left. It was now over a half hour later. He had been about to begin a second chapter, when the two men had returned and interrupted his immersion.

"Yes," James said, his bespectacled, hazel eyes firm with resolve, as he looked down to Harry from where he stood a mere few feet from the sofa. "I can't ask you to…sacrifice yourself. I just can't. Everything else could've been managed. Harry would've gotten over you being gone. It might've taken a while but he would have. He'd have understood that – that the way you've – the fact that he was –"

"My horcrux," Harry supplied, when James failed to complete the sentence.

James cringed. "Yes, that. He'd have understood that it was wrong. And the war. We could have managed it or tried our best to, at the very least. We would have had your memories. We'd have fought just as we had thirteen years ago. We were able to hold Voldemort off then. We'd have done well enough with your memories now, I'm sure. But I can't ask you, my son, to die just so that I can have a version of you that I raised and love. I –" he swallowed the word. "You don't care, I know. You probably don't feel that you should care. I get that you've had a hard life…that you're…" he trailed off and sighed, looking flustered. Taking a step forward, he closed the distance between him and Harry and bent down directly in front of where Harry was seated to better meet him eye to eye. "I don't know you, you understand?"

"Nor I you, James," Harry reminded the man.

"I'm sorry for that." James looked upon Harry with true heartbreak, his eyes searching Harry's face but seemingly unable to find what he desired. He hung his head, disappointed. "Don't mess up. Please."

Harry set aside the book that he had been reading and leaned forward. He grabbed the man's right hand and encased it with both his hands, before giving it a firm squeeze, as he would do for any of his comrades experiencing emotional turmoil. James stared down at their entangled hands, as if he couldn't understand why the gesture had been extended to him.

"I won't mess up," Harry promised compassionately, causing James to start and look back up at him. "I know what I'm doing, James. This isn't goodbye for any of us."

"How long?" James asked, the words strained and barely rising above a whisper.

"24 hrs at the most," Harry said, giving James's hand another soothing squeeze, while maintaining eye contact with the man.

It took Harry a few more minutes to convince the worried father that everything was going to be fine, before the man reluctantly stepped back and joined Sirius over at the worktable, where the other man had quietly setup a game of chess – a silent declaration that neither man was going anywhere anytime soon. Seeing this, Harry closed the book beside him that he had been reading and set it on the floor.

"Don't try to wake me," Harry said, looking over at the two men. He pinned each man with a grave look that communicated just how important it was that they didn't disturb him. "I don't care if the house is burning down or if I appear to be having a rough go of it, do _not _wake me."

"Got it," Sirius said, as James nodded his understanding as well.

Harry eyed the two men a moment longer, before lying down on the sofa and making himself comfortable. He closed his eyes and plunged his mind into a subconscious state, allowing the sleep that he had kept at bay to claim him in a matter of seconds.

"_Yes!" The shout greeted him, just as a teenage boy clobbered him._

_Porteur grunted at the impact and tactfully untangled himself from the boy. "Harry," he greeted, as the boy spun away from him in a whirlwind of motion and energy._

"_I knew you wouldn't do it!" the boy declared with a wide grin set upon his face, as he went about practically bouncing around the Gryffindor Common Room in his excitement. "I knew it. I knew it. I knew it! I knew that you'd see reason and listen to Dad in the end. I knew it! I so so soooo knew it!"_

"_Are you going to continue bragging, or do you want to do this?" Porteur asked, glaring at the gloating boy._

_The boy ceased his jumping about and turned to him, sticking out his tongue and crossing his arms over his chest. _

"_Real mature," Porteur remarked, his glare not lessening in the slightest._

"_Fine," the boy said exasperatedly. "But when we merge, we're going to have fun. We're not going to read boring, informative books all day and we're not going to curse people for no apparent reason and –"_

"_That isn't how this works." Porteur interrupted, cutting the boy off before the boy began to ramble. "Who we become…he will do whatever it is that he wants to do. We will have no conscious control over him. We'll only be memories. Now, come here."_

"_Is this going to hurt?" the boy asked, suddenly nervous, as he crossed the Common Room back over to Porteur, who was standing by the great hearth as usual, with shuffled steps and tense shoulders._

If you continue to be a pain in the ass, I'll make it hurt,_ Porteur thought tetchily, despite knowing that it was a wholly empty threat and that the boy was done bragging. "It might hurt a bit, but we really won't feel much pain inside our minds as we are."_

"_That's good," the boy said, sounding relieved. Upon stepping up to Porteur, he looked up at the older version of himself. "What is it exactly that I have to do?"_

"_Nothing," Porteur said, reaching out to steady the boy with his left hand, while placing his index and middle fingers of his right hand under the boy's chin. He tilt the boy's head back a fraction of an inch to gain better eye contact. "Just don't move and don't resist. Okay?"_

"_Okay," the boy said meekly._

_With the rules of engagement set, Porteur reached out towards the boy's mind, searching for a weak spot in the barrier between their minds that he could exploit without bring the whole barrier crashing down around them._


	11. Waking

**Chapter 11 ****-** Waking

His head hurt. That was as far as he got in accessing his waking condition, before he was forced to roll sideways on the soft surface that he was lying upon and spew his gut over the edge and onto the floor below. He let out a pitiful moan and tucked his burning forehead into the crook of his arm, attempting to shield his eyes from the light assaulting his closed eyelids. His head didn't just hurt, he realized. No, his brain was practically pounding against his skull with all its might and demanding it be released from its confines. His stomach rolled a second time, as a particularly jarring wave of pain punctuated through his cranium and caused his entire being to wither and contract in response.

"Harry?" a male voice asked urgently, followed by the shifting of floorboards and the sounds of someone kneeling down beside him.

He flinched, as a hand came to rest upon his back. The pressure of the hand lessened the slightest bit, but did not disappear.

"Harry?"

The man's worried, yet hopeful tone caused him turn his head in the direction of the man's voice and valiantly squint his eyes open. Gold-hued light flooded his vision through his eyelashes, instantly sending his head into a painful, stationary spin. He ignored the increase of nausea and the fresh pain shooting from his optic nerves to his abused and throbbing brain and forced his vision to focus on the figure hovering over him.

"Harry?" a man with sharp, angular features, a mess of black hair atop his head, and square rimmed glasses shielding his hazel eyes asked, now sounding more concerned than he had before.

He blinked at the man, finding the name 'Harry' to be very familiar, as well as finding the man to be just as familiar to him, though he wasn't sure why. Delving into his mind, despite the mother of all migraines afflicting, he attempted to locate the name 'Harry' and the man in his memories. And just like that, it was as if a dam broke. Memory after memory flooded his awareness – two lives set side by side – two lives aligned harmoniously with smooth and flawless transitions from one lifetime of memories to the next – two lives that truly couldn't have been any more different from one another, yet both were his and he had lived and experienced both in their totality. There was no confusion, no warring of emotions or thoughts within him, as the memories continued to rush back to him. He knew his past with perfect clarity. He knew his present, as well as what could be and what needed to be done, with that same perfect clarity. Most importantly, he knew who he was. He wasn't two separate Harry Potters. He was a single being: Harold 'Harry' James Potter, son of James Charlus Potter and Lily Annabel Potter née Evans, brother of Bethany Laurel Potter, and godson of Sirius Orion Black.

It wasn't until the memories stopped and the present once more asserted its precedence over the past that Harry realized that he had been screaming and had turned back into the sofa to press his forehead back into the crook of his arm with his eyes firmly squeezed shut. _So much for only a bit of pain,_ he grumbled mentally, as he gasped for breath and winced at the raw feeling now possessing his throat. He had been lying to himself in more ways than one, when he had assured himself that merging his existence would only hurt a bit. Sure, as long as he had remained unconscious and within his mind, he hadn't really felt the physical strain of having a constant flow of concentrated magical energy ripping through his divided conscious and forging it into a single awareness. Being awake and facing the aftermath, however, was a whole other matter.

"Harry!"

The shaking of his shoulder was insistent and his father's voice was near frantic.

"I'm all right," Harry said, forcing the words to form and become vocalized. He wasn't exactly 'all right' so to speak, but he would be, and that was what his father truly wanted to know. "I could do with a headache reliever though." Though he'd rather use Occlumency to block the pain, he knew better than to attempt it. With his mind still afflicted by the trauma of merging his two selves, using even the smallest amount of magic, with his mind as its conduit, to alter his perception of pain would only lead to greater pain, not less.

"A fever reducer and a stomach soother as well," James murmured, as his hands moved to feel the back of Harry's neck and to touch the teen's forehead.

"Just the headache reliever," Harry refuted, rolling carefully back on to his back, while keeping his eyes shut. His brain did not need optical stimuli at the moment. The light from the oil lamps that was reddening his closed eyelids was bad enough. "I don't want to be so doped up that I can't think straight."

There was more shifting of floorboards. Then a hand that was colder than James's hands pressed against Harry's forehead.

"I only have a fever and an upset stomach due to my head attempting to murder me," Harry said in an attempt to reason with the two men, as he knew that if his godfather agreed with his father's assessment, they'd force the potions down his throat, despite his unwillingness to consume them. Considering that he was certain that just sitting up would send him toppling over due to a severe lack of any semblance of equilibrium, he'd say that their chances of success were exceedingly high at the moment.

Harry couldn't help but whimper, as Sirius's cool hand withdrew from his forehead. He settled quickly, however, as a conjured washcloth that was damp and even colder than Sirius's hand was pressed to his forehead mere seconds later. It didn't do much for his gut wrenching, skull splitting headache, but it sure felt good against his blazing skin. The fact that the cloth slipped over his eyes only served to make his condition all the more bearable.

"If Mayra were here, she'd put him under until his fever goes down."

Harry opened his mouth, inclined to protest, but stopped himself, upon quickly realizing that sleeping off the pain would be preferable to suffering through it. "Sounds like a plan."

The two men, who had taken up a whispered conversation that Harry hadn't quite been paying attention to, ceased their quiet exchange.

"You want to be knocked out?" Sirius asked for clarification, sounding bewildered.

"It's better than being conscious," Harry said, while reaching up to press the damp washcloth more firmly to his forehead. It had already absorbed a good amount of heat. "My head is killing me. Either get me a headache reliever or knock me out. I _really_ don't care which."

"I'll be back," Sirius said softly and gave Harry's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

As Harry listened to his godfather's receding footsteps, he felt his father refresh the charms on the washcloth. He let his hand fall back at his side with a sigh. "Thanks."

"I know it probably doesn't help much," James said sympathetically, "but it might keep your fever somewhat in check, until Sirius gets back."

"Did it take me the full 24 hours?" Harry asked, wondering just how long it had taken to consolidate his existence.

"A little over," James said. "Another ten minutes and you would have hit the 26 hour mark."

Harry hummed. 24 hours hadn't been a bad estimate. He probably should have told his father 30 hours just to be on the safe side, though, so his father wouldn't have had to worry. He could tell by the strain in his father's voice that the last 26 hours hadn't been kind to the man. "Are you okay?" he asked with concern.

James gave a shaky laugh that sounded somewhat forced. "As long as you're all right, I'll be just fine."

Silence fell between father and son. Harry focused on his breathing, the steady pound of his heartbeat, anything but the pain assaulting his head.

"It did work, didn't it?" James asked tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry reached up and pushed the washcloth back from his eyes. He winced at the light reddened his closed eyelids, once more, before pressing onward and fully opening his eyes. Intense pain pierced his cranium and a wave of nauseas churned his stomach at the optical exposure. By sheer willpower, he endured both sensations and looked to his father. "It worked," he said firmly.

James held Harry's pain-clouded gaze for a moment, before nodding, his face an indecipherable mask and his eyes gleaming ever so slightly behind his glasses. "That's good."

Harry offered his hand to the man with a hint of uncertainty. He knew his feeling and his thoughts, but his father had been hesitant about the merge. With the man's face so closed off, he wasn't sure how his father felt about him now that he was neither the 13, almost 14 year old that the man had come to know, nor the 23 year old who went by the name of Porteur, who his father had silently disapproved of and had struggled to trust.

"I love you, Dad," Harry said with open honesty, hoping that his sentiments would be return.

James hesitated for only a moment, before taking Harry's offered hand in his right hand. "I love you too, son."

Harry's smiled ever so slightly, relief washing through him. "We're okay?"

"We're okay," James confirmed and did his best to give Harry a reassuring grin.

It would take time, Harry knew. The persona of Porteur was a large part of him, just as his teenage self was a large part of him. He and his father were going to have to adjust and make compromises, if they were to retain the close relationship that they had shared. He could see it in his father's eyes that the man knew as much as well, but was willing to make an effort all the same.

When Sirius returned several minutes later, Harry consumed the multitude of potions that his godfather all but ordered him to take. Upon swallowing down a vial of Dreamless Sleep, he welcomed the relief that the potions offered and allowed unconsciousness to have him.

– – – – –

When Harry next woke, he immediately noticed that he was very warm and very comfortable. As he roused from the depths of blessed darkness, he yawned and habitually scrubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. Upon opening his eyes to world around him, he stiffened and blinked a few times, while slowly taking in his altered surroundings. He was no longer sprawled out on the sofa in the Black Library, though it didn't seem that he had been removed from 12 Grimmauld Place entirely. The dark wood floors and the faded and pealing wallpaper on the walls were recognizable enough to him as belonging to the ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, as were the overall dark atmosphere of the home and the just noticeable stench in the air.

Sunlight streamed into the unfamiliar bedroom through a lone window that had its curtains drawn back and cascaded across the floor, creeping around a dark green, wingback armchair and cutting in a bright strip across the foot of the roomy four-poster bed that Harry was lying in. Harry pushed back the finely embroidered comforter covering him and sat up. For a brief second, he experienced the dizzying sensation of a head rush, as he adjusted from lying horizontal to sitting up vertical. With careful movements, as to not provoke another head rush, he moved to the edge of the bed and swung his feet over the side. He grimaced as his skin came in contact with the cool floorboards.

With a quick glance about the bedroom, Harry located the rucksack that he had brought with him to Grimmauld Place resting on an antique sideboard to his left. The shoes that he had been wearing were set before the sideboard, while the clothes that he had been wearing were neatly stacked on the sideboard next to the rucksack. Getting up out of bed fully, he stretched. He couldn't remember the last time that he had felt so well rested. It had definitely been months in this world, years in the other world.

With at first careful steps that progressed to a normal speed, he crossed over to the sideboard and exchanged the flaming red night robe that he had been dressed in for his familiar clothes and shoes. Once he was dressed, he looked to the nightstand beside the bed for his wand. Not seeing it, he turned to his rucksack. His ash wand was tucked inside, resting atop the change of clothes that he had brought.

"Still a piece of shit, I see." Harry glared mutinously at the wand, as it failed to yield properly to his magic, yet still performed the mouth refreshing spell that he had cast upon himself.

Deciding that getting a new wand had just been labeled 'urgent' and moved to the top of his list of things to do, Harry slipped the ash wand between his belt and the waistband of his trousers, as the tan trousers lacked pockets on all fronts. _Jeans_, he thought firmly, deciding that getting his hands on a couple pairs of decent jeans was a must as well, or at least a couple pairs of trousers with pockets. _Plus a wand holster. _He added the item to his mental list. _In fact, I better make it a whole new wardrobe_. He truly did love his mother dearly, but she had no sense of practicality. He couldn't go tromping through muddy trenches and fighting Death Eaters in trainers and thin cotton trousers. Not to mention, the bright plaid shirts and the _dashing_ robes would be spotted a mile away and were not at all conducive to dueling or any other sort of fast pace movement, such as running for one's life.

_Impractical, completely ridiculous,_ Harry ranted, as he opened the only door to the room with full intentions of tracking down his father and godfather. Now that his head wasn't attempting to murder him, they had some very important issues to discuss. His wand and his wardrobe being amongst other pressing issues, such as how to explain his shift in personality and what his intentions were in regard to the impending war that was set to begin its second round in less than a year. He wasn't certain how things would pan out. However, at the current moment, only his father, his godfather, and he knew what he had done and who he actually was. They all needed to get on the same page about who could know what and exactly what said person or persons could be told. Yes, very important issues, indeed.


	12. Compromise

**Chapter 12 – Compromise**

The hallways of Grimmauld Place were as dark and gloomy as ever. They had, however, been cleaned. Instead of having to fight off cobwebs and the spiders occupying said cobwebs, while attempting not to breathe in too much of the dust that stirred in the air with his every step, Harry's footfalls fell on pristine floorboards and his path ahead was unhindered, not even a single cobweb in sight. It was as if he had woken up back within 12 Grimmauld Place of the other world, eight years into the past. He remembered the hallways of that world's Grimmauld Place having been just as clean during the Weasleys' occupation of the house, when the house had served as headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. The house hadn't been so clean since and probably never would be again, at least not in the other world – perhaps in this world Sirius would fix the place up.

Upon descending a flight of stairs down to the first floor, Harry had been about to descend the grand staircase and proceed to the home's basement kitchen, as had once been his accustom route upon waking in the mornings, when he noticed that the door to the drawing room was propped open and he heard his father and godfather's laughter ring out from within. Turning up the first floor hallway, he bypassed the Black Library and made for the drawing room at the end of the long, narrow hall.

"_Riddikulus!_"

Harry heard his father choke out the spell between bouts of laughter, just as he rounded the doorframe of the drawing room to see what appeared to have been a dead and bloody body lying on the floor at the center of the room transform into a dancing red cape. Harry couldn't help but chuckled along with his father and godfather, as the cape flew up into the air and executed several clumsy dance moves, before a miscalculated pirouette caused it to catch on the edge of the tea table between the sofas and sent it skidding across the floor towards him in a wadded up ball.

"Harry!" James exclaimed in surprise and alarm, as the man caught sight of him.

Harry was only vaguely aware of his father and godfather's hurried steps faltering in their rush towards him and the boggart that they had been attempting to dispel. His focus was solely on the skeletal figure swathed in a dark cloak and silk robes rising from the folds of what had been the red cape to tower over him. His heart sped and adrenalin flooded him at the sight of the man who had haunted him day and night for almost the entirety of his life. _It's a boggart. Only a boggart,_ he reminded himself firmly, refusing to give power to the being, as the menacing figure of the Dark Lord began to stride towards him with soundless, barefoot steps and a cruel smile twisting thin, white lips and crinkling pale, snake-like features. Gleaming red eyes bore into Harry with hatred and disgust, as the gaunt figure broke out into high, cold laughter that sent a shiver down his spine, drawing on the blood sodden earth, blistering fires, and the dark, twisted and near intoxicating magics deep within his memories that were associated with the image before him and the sound of that cold laughter ringing in his ears. With slow, deliberate movements, movements so reflective of the monster that it was depicting, the boggart withdrew a familiar bone white wand from within its robes.

Harry reacted on instinct, as if a switch had been flipped inside his mind. One second he had been standing his ground; the next he dove to the side, tucking his body into a roll and barely avoiding the sickly orange curse that the boggart had flung at him with a sharp flick of its wrist. There was a loud bang and a reverberating explosion, upon the curse making contact with the doorframe that he had been standing in not a second prior. Fragments of splintered wood blasted him and the drawing room, as he rounded on the boggart with his wand drawn.

Occluding his mind against the magic of the sentient being before him, in order to prevent it from drawing further inspiration from his memories, Harry thrust his ash wand in a sharp downward jab and finished the propulsion of the magic gathering under his command with a curved upward cut and twist. Black flames sprung forth from the very air in the room, licking off of the floorboards – an inferno taking on an almost conscious quality, as it hissed into being and engulfed the boggart, before the boggart could take even one more step towards him or raise the yew wand in its hand for a second time. Wrapping around the boggart in an imitation of the long, constricting body of a snake, the obsidian flames hummed with satisfaction under Harry's ironclad control, consuming the boggart offered to them with greedy haste. Upon blackened flakes of burnt flesh breaking away from the boggart's burning form and wafting to the floor, Harry cut the flow of energy feeding the flames with practiced difficulty, causing the flames to die out. Like a crumbling tower of cards, the charcoal remains of the boggart dissolved into a pile of ash.

Devil's Fire, while capable of widespread devastation in a matter of seconds, was also the only proven form of magic capable of destroying a dementor and was more than capable of destroying various other beings born of latent magic. It was his own personal variant of fiendfyre, one that he had been devastated to see end up in enemy hands and used against the very innocents that he had been trying to protect by its creation.

"Sorry about that," Harry said calmly, looking to his father and godfather, who were both staring at where the boggart had been with horror. "I should have employed Occlumency the second that I realize you were handling a boggart."

Ah, the sweet, naïve boy that he had been was showing through in his carelessness. _I'll have to watch that,_ Harry thought firmly. It was something that he'd need to correct for a second time in his life, or so it seemed. With so many lives and an entire continent made up of various nations and cultures at stake, he couldn't afford to slip up and miss something important or get caught out and killed, before he had the chance to destroy the Voldemort of this world, as he had in the other world.

Seeing that his father and godfather were both still frozen in place and stunned to silence, Harry turned his attention to the boggart's remains. _Evanesco! _He swept his wand over pile of ash, which only resulted in his wand sputtering and shaking, before fizzling out without even producing a faint shadow of the vanishing spell. "Damn." He had burnt through more ill-fitted wands in his life than he cared to count. Hopefully, Ollivander would have a wand capable of matching him, as he didn't feel like waiting for the month it would take for Nataskova to assemble him a custom wand. The old witch was notorious for drawing out the process of obtaining a compatible wand wood. Plus, Ollivander's wands were of the finest quality this side of the English Channel. Nataskova could hardly compete, though she did try.

"W-what did you just do?"

Harry looked to Sirius. The man had finally managed to regain his wits, though he remained distinctly pale.

"I tried to cast a vanishing spells." Harry shrugged. The key word, in his opinion, was 'tried'.

"Don't play cute, Harry," James said, gathering himself as well. His eyes were hard and unyielding, as he stared down his son in demand of an explanation.

"Well, I _did_ try to cast a vanishing spell," Harry said, carelessly tossing his now useless wand atop the boggart's remains. "As for what I did before that," he added, when neither his father nor godfather looked pacified, "…yes, it was Dark Magic. No, I will not tell you what it was specifically. Yes, it is dangerous to use. Yes, it can quickly spurn out of control without proper concentration and control. No, you weren't in any danger just now, not even for a second. Yes, I've used that particular spell countless times before now."

"And that thing was supposed to have been Voldemort?" Sirius asked shakily, when James said nothing and merely continued to stare at Harry with conflict in his hazel eyes. It was as if the man wanted to yell at his brazen son until he was blue in the face, yet knew that to do so would be counterproductive and a complete waste of his breath, as well as a waste of everyone's time.

Harry nodded in answer to Sirius's question, before drawing himself up and meeting his father's narrowed eyed gaze with defiance. While he was willing to compromise with his father on some things for the sake of retaining an amicable and close relationship with the man, this was one thing that he was not going to compromise on. He respected that not everyone viewed magic and how it should and should not be used as he did – it was the only way that he had been able to work with the other witches and wizards of the Resistance over the course of the war in the other world – but he wasn't about to change his views or disregard what he had come to know of the very nature of magic, no matter what his family's beliefs were regarding Dark Magic. As far as he was concerned, magic was magic. He had and would always work off of a spell by spell, situation by situation basis, when it came to determining what magic was acceptable and what wasn't acceptable.

"Dad, I know you don't like Dark Magic," Harry began, making it a point not to sound defensive or superior in his views, "but I _am_ a gray wizard, a Dark Magic user. I'm not going to –"

James held up his hand for silence.

A tense quiet settled over the room, as Harry respected his father's request. When he had been Porteur, this _unsavory _part of him had no doubt been easier for his father to ignore and look past, as Porteur existence within this world was supposed to have been temporary. It seemed that he was going to need to be patient with his father now that his beliefs and their differences in regard to magic use had become a permanent part of him and their relationship. With a mental sigh, Harry settled in to wait for his father to decide either to yell at him or to come to terms with what he had done.

One minute passed, then another. No one moved. No one spoke. The drawing room and its occupants were utterly still

As Harry watched his father attempt to come to some sort of resolution, he noted that restraint coiled his father's entire being. _He's fighting his very nature, his every instinct to refuse to accept Dark Magic within his home, _he observed, knowing that fathers had disowned and kicked their sons out of their homes for much less. He sincerely doubted that his father would ever take things so far – James Potter just wasn't that sort of man – but it was clear that his father was struggling with his shift of morality. After all, the man had spent nearly 14 year raising his teenage self to be Light. Perhaps having his leanings thrown in the man's face first off wasn't the best thing, but his methods would have been called into question soon enough.

Shooting a look to Sirius, Harry saw that his godfather was watching his father with expectation and a faint note of apprehension. There was intensity in his godfather's gray eyes that was practically willing his father to not do or say anything rash. Again he had to wonder at the oddity of his godfather in this world. Though his teenage self had known the man his entire life, Sirius had never mentioned or showed any sort of dark leanings. In fact, Sirius rarely, if ever mentioned his views on magic. The one time that he did remember Sirius expressing an opinion on the magics regulated by the Ministry, his father had glared the man into silence.

A few more minutes passed. Finally, James seemed to come to a decision and he gestured for Harry to sit down on one of sofas.

"I'm just going to…" Sirius indicated to the door and his impending departure.

"I'm not lecturing him, Sirius," James said, resignation pulling at the corners of his lips and firm in his eyes.

Sirius looked skeptical for a half-second, before giving James a once over and appearing to accept that James was being honest. "Stay?"

"Stay," James confirmed.

Upon Harry settling on the old green sofa that he remembered having lounged on in the other world and Sirius reclining back on the sofa opposite Harry, James kneeled down beside Harry.

Harry hissed and snapped his attention to his father, as the man prodded lightly at a particularly sore spot on his right arm. Looking down to see the incurred injury, he was surprised to find several minor cuts, as well as a few splinters inlaid in the skin of both his arms. Though, his right arm was far worse off than his left. Lifting his left hand – the one that his father wasn't currently pulling splinters out of – he reached up to check his face for abrasions.

"You don't want to do that," James said, catching Harry's wrist and returning the appendage to his son's side.

"Dad, Porteur and Harry…they're both a part of me," Harry said, as he watched his father heal his wounds with practiced movements.

"They are, but you still have a choice in how you think and what you do," James said dismissively. "You're actions are you own. You understand?"

Harry nodded. He understood exactly what his father was saying: he had no excuses. Whatever part of him was more the 23 year old man than the teenage boy and whatever part of him was more the teenage boy than the 23 year old man was a part of him that he had chosen to embrace as being a part of himself. His memories were merely that: memories. While his past informed his present, he had the unique background of having experienced two separate and very different lives. If he wanted to, he could chose to align his beliefs with his teenage self, just as he could chose to align his emotional ties with the 23 year old man that he had been. What he did today or tomorrow or a year from could not be blamed on his past–selves. Yes, both the teenage boy and 23 year old man were a part of him, but he was the one calling the shots now, making his actions entirely his own.

James worked quietly and quickly for several minutes, carefully healing Harry's wounds. Harry noted that both his father and godfather had fared better than he had, as they had been further away from the blast. His father only had a few scrapes on his hands. His godfather appeared to have survived the destruction of the drawing room door unscathed.

"What are we going to tell Mum?" Harry asked, as his father finished healing an abrasion on his face into nonexistence. Now that things had calmed down, there were things that they did to discuss. His mother was a primary concern. She was no doubt out of her mind with worry by now.

"At the moment, she thinks that Sirius and I have taken you to see a specialist," James said, as he turned Harry's face to the left to check for additional cuts that he may have missed.

"An old family friend who owes the Blacks a favor and is paranoid about his privacy," Sirius supplied, when Harry looked to him questioningly.

"Exactly how long have I been out?" Harry asked, as he combined the revelation of his supposed whereabouts with the change in Grimmauld Place's overall cleanliness. _Longer than a day that's for sure._ The lie that the two men had told his mother wasn't a temporary stall. It was an open ended stall that supplied them with as much time as would be needed for him to recover from the merging of his existence.

"Almost a week." James shifted back and slipped his wand into the holster strapped to his wrist, looking unconcerned by the extended amount of time that his son had slept.

"You gave me Yilmaz Solution, once the Dreamless Sleep began to wear off, didn't you?" Harry turned accusing eyes on Sirius. The solution put the patient into a medically induced coma and wouldn't allow the patient to wake, until all of his or her aliments had been healed or the antidote had been administered. He had only been subject to the solution once in the other world. The bastard who had drugged him had needed a dose of the Yilmaz and a decent healer himself, once he had finished with him. Admittedly, he may have over reacted. However, being rendered unconscious and unable to wake up and defend his person in the midst of an all out war was no small matter, especially as he had been _the_ prime target of the opposition.

"You're welcome." Sirius grinned unrepentantly.

"Dose me again without my consent and we'll see if you're still smiling," Harry said darkly. He did _not_ enjoy being drugged and particularly disliked being poisoned, though he would take the drugging over the poisoning.

"He had _my_ consent," James cut in, giving Harry a pointed look. "As you're my son and underage, that's all the permission anyone needs, when seeing to your wellness and safety."

_Line drawn,_ Harry acknowledged, looking to his father and meeting the man's steadfast gaze. _Concession: you give, I give. I allow this and in return…? Do you look the other way regarding the magics that I use, like you've forced yourself to do just now with my burning the boggart? Is that the compromise?_ He had seen in his father's eyes that the man knew that nothing that the man did or said would change his mind about the magics that he used. He had seen that the man knew that he would not change his mind on the matter, that this part of Porteur was here to stay. Looking at his father now, the man was just as set about having the ultimate say in assuring his wellbeing and safety as he had been about his use of magic.

"I'm not staying out of the war," Harry told the man firmly.

"I hadn't expected that you would," James said with acceptance.

"I'll fight using whatever means I deem necessary," Harry said, defining his side of the compromise.

James's eyes hardened the slightest bit, though he nodded. "I know you will."

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"I've noticed." James's gaze flicked to the pile of ash that had been the boggart.

Harry eyed the man, looking for any signs of deception that foretold of the man reneging and giving him an earful regarding his use of Dark Magic. Seeing none, he nodded in acceptance. "As long as we understand each other…though exactly how old I am is debatable."

James grinned and shook his head in exasperation, as Sirius snorted with amusement.

"You're thirteen going on fourteen," Sirius informed decisively. "It's already been debated, put to a vote, and ruled upon."

"A mature thirteen going on a mature fourteen," James allowed, upon Harry scowling at both men.

"You know, if we add up all the years that I've actually lived, I'd be older than the both of you by two years?" Harry raised a challenging eyebrow.

"And if we average out how old you are, you'd be 18, or roughly so," Sirius said knowingly. "So how old are you: 36, 23, 18, or 14?"

"Exactly! It's debatable," Harry said, not entirely certain of the answer himself. All he did know was that he wasn't 14. He had lived through too much in both of his lives to be only 14 years old.

"As debatable as your mental age may be, Harry, your physical age is 13, going on 14," James said and gestured to Harry's scrawny frame, as if to prove his point. "Sirius and I have discussed this at length and every time we end up back at the fact that by law and how old people will perceive you to be, you are an underage wizard turning 14 at the end of the month."

Harry glared at his too small to belong to an adult hands, knowing that his father was right. When people look at him, they'd see a 14 year old boy. As he didn't actually know how old he was, the simplest and most sensible thing to do was to assume his physical age. It would prevent all kinds of confusion and would be easier for him and his family to keep track of.

"You two decide anything else while I was knocked out for the last week?" Harry asked derisively, looking from his father to his godfather and back to his father. "Outside of the obvious, of course." He indicated to the partially clean drawing room.

James exchanged a long look with Sirius, before turning back to Harry with troubled eyes and his lips pursed in a thin line. Harry noted that Sirius had suddenly become very solemn and serious as well.

"Nothing good then," Harry murmured resignedly.

"Porteur said that the information that you possess is sensitive," James began delicately.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "He also told you that I'd be keeping that information to myself. You'll be told what is important, when it's necessary and only when it's necessary. I'm not compromising on this, Dad. For my safety, for your safety, for the safety of the entire continent of Europe –"

"_Harry_," James's tone wasn't reprimanding, but it did have a sharp edge. "We're not asking for you to tell us what you know. Believe it or not, we do understand that there is information that needs to be kept contained to as few individuals as possible. If you're telling the truth about the impact that this information that you have could have should it get back to Voldemort what you know, I don't want to know any of it, unless you absolutely require that I be told part of it."

"Then what are you on about?" Harry's gaze cast shrewdly from his father to his godfather.

"How best to protect _you_," Sirius said and leaned forward in his seat to rest his elbow on his knees. His eyes were grave and filled with concern.

Upon looking to back to James, Harry noted that his father was tense and that the man's eyes were filled with anxiety as well.

"What you know puts a target on your back," James said seriously. "Even if you reveal nothing sensitive to anyone else, should certain individuals find out that you have knowledge of an alternate universe, one where the war has already been fought and won, it won't matter that you've no intentions of sharing your knowledge."

"And we're not just talking about Voldemort and his followers. There are also the Ministry, mad experimentalists, and even Dumbledore to worry about." Sirius ticked off each threat on the fingers of his left hand. "Although, the mad experimentalists won't care much for you knowledge regarding the war and will just want to examine the first person to not only successfully merge souls, but traverse dimensions."

"You do realize that they'd have to get their hands on me first," Harry said, finding it difficult to be concerned about crackpot experimentalists that were better suited for lab work than dueling. As for the Ministry, it was run by idiots. Sure, a few Aurors like his father and the Longbottoms were fairly sharp, but the overall legislature was so full of loopholes that just about anyone could get away with murder with the right defense and enough galleons. Dumbledore and Voldemort were legitimate concerns, he did have to admit. However, he was more than capable of hold his own, whether it be against Dumbledore's suspicions or Voldemort's Dark Regime.

"It's already been proven that you can be drugged," Sirius pointed out, arching a meaningful eyebrow at his godson.

"What we're getting at," James cut in, as Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously at Sirius with the reminder, "is that we don't think that revealing the truth of who you actually are is a good idea."

"Not to _anyone_?" Harry asked, shock resonating through him with the implication of his father's words. Surely his mother, at least, had the right to know. He couldn't just lie to her and pretend that nothing had changed. While he could pull off the act of being his teenage self for a brief amount of time, he wouldn't be able to keep it up indefinitely. She was bound to notice that his 23 year old self was a part of him. Not to mention, it felt _wrong_ just thinking about lying to her about something like this. He could see keeping the truth of who he was from Bethany and people outside of the family – in fact, it was what he preferred – but not keeping it from his mother.

"Harry, what your mother and sister don't know can't harm you or them," James said gravely.

"She's my _mother_," Harry said in objection.

"Yes," James agreed, though his expression remained unrelenting, "Lily is your mother. She is also my wife and practically Sirius's sister. We don't like the idea of keeping this from her any more than you do. However, things are what they are. For the same reasons that you don't want to tell us what you know, who you are has to stay between us."

"This isn't –" Harry cut himself off to prevent himself for saying anything about Voldemort's horcruxes, the Kill Wards already laid in Britain, and various other bits of information that could easily get thousands, if not millions of people killed, muggle and magical alike. "This is something personal…about _me_. It isn't the same."

"Ignorance is bliss," Sirius said softly. "Knowing that her son's nightmares were never just nightmares and that he'd been a horcrux for an alternate version of her son, who grew up in entirely different world without her…" Sirius trailed off, frowning. "She's better off not knowing the truth."

"So the lie that you told her about taking me to a specialist wasn't just a stall for time," Harry surmised, understanding what his godfather hadn't said outright. The truth would hurt his mother. Not only would it put her in danger and increase the danger to himself, it would cause her unnecessary grief. Looking from his godfather to his father, he could see that both men knew just how harmful the truth could be. They were handling the situation admirably, yet the knowledge of the magics that had been involved in his 23 year old self coming to be a part of his teenage self and the loss of his teenage self to who he had become as result of the merge of his two selves weighed heavily on them.

"She's expecting her son to come home cured," James said in confirmation. "We've told her that the specialist knows of a way to heal the 'fracture' in your personality. She's prepared for you to be different."

"Simple with a hint of truth," Harry acknowledged with a grim smile tugging at his lips. At least she wouldn't be expecting him to be the version of her son that she had known for the last 14 years.

"All the best lies are." James smiled a grim smile of his own.


	13. Going Home

**Chapter 13 – Going Home**

Diagon Alley was bustling with people. Witched and wizards of all ages and of various backgrounds were moving about the narrow, cobble street. Children weaved in and out of the crowd – giggling and chasing after each other, as their parents yelled for them to come back, or requested that they not go too far. Street vendors and shop owners could be heard declaring their wares and calling out their sales for the day. Their voices rang out enticingly, drowning out the excitement about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and the latest gossip being spread amongst the masses.

Harry grinned, as colorful displays flashed in multiple store fronts, some accompanied by bangs and puffs of multicolored smoke or flamboyant showers of sparks. In this world, he hadn't come to Diagon Alley often, as he hadn't really liked crowds and had preferred to stay home, if he could. In the other world, the last time that he had seen Diagon Alley so cheerful was the summer before his third year at Hogwarts, which had been over a decade ago according the memories of his 23 year old self. Harry truly couldn't help but feel exhilarated by his surroundings, as he felt the palpable magic in the air cling to his person and shift around him with the movements of his fellow patrons.

With the midday sun warming his face and the familiar scent of fresh baked bread mingling with herbs and the fumes of various potions coming from the bakery up the way and the apothecary to his left filling his nose and lungs with his every breath, Harry could only continue to grin like a loon, as he and his father cut a path through the crowd and made their way towards Ollivander's.

"You all right?"

Harry looked up to his father, who was striding along beside him. At seeing the bemused look on the man's face, his grin broadened. "I'm fine, more than fine actually."

Well, in truth, Harry _was_ a bit disconcerted over not having a working wand on his person, but it wasn't like he was entirely helpless without a wand. The war in the other world had taught him many things, surviving a hostile encounter without a wand being one of the more useful and important lessons that he had learned. Not to mention, this world wasn't at war quite yet. It was unlikely that he would be attacked, unlikely to the point that there was a better chance of the cloudless sky unleashing a down pour of fat raindrops on the city of London within the next few minutes. With magic involved, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, but it remained highly improbable all the same.

As Harry and James made their way past Gringotts, Harry's elated mood falter ever so slightly and he turned a surreptitious glare upon the great, snow white bank. The Goblin Nation had basically handed Voldemort the whole of Europe in the other world, when the self-serving bastards had transferred the contents of every last bank vault connected to the Resistance and its individual members and allies to multiple accounts setup for the ever expanding Dark Regime. The transfers had included the funds of several nations that had opposed Voldemort, as well as the funds of quite a few noble houses and successful businesses within the nations that had already been conquered by Voldemort.

With Voldemort basically controlling the majority of the gold throughout Europe, as the Dark Lord had the accounts of the Resistance as well as the accounts of his followers under his command, Voldemort had soon taken control of the trading of goods and had moved to conquer the nations that he had yet to conquer. With the Kill Wards expanding over each conquered nation, Voldemort had gained near exclusive control over immigration and all movement between Europe's nations. Starvation and what had been basically a life of slavery for low-class half-bloods, blood-traitors, and non-human magical races and concentration camps and mass killings for muggle-borns and muggles had soon followed. As Voldemort had bolster his Elite with riches and vast plots of land, mid-class citizens had been left to fight amongst themselves for the few jobs that actually paid a decent amount of galleons and to obtain enough food to feed their families, as well as save enough gold to pay their taxes to the Dark Regime for protection against the 'Undesirables' and particularly against Harry Potter, Undesirable No. 1.

Seeing as most of Voldemort's Elite had been prone to abusing the power granted to them, it had been entirely unsurprising that the remains of Europe's economy had collapsed in its entirety within a short six months. Anyone in possession of gold had quickly become a target for thieves. Anyone in possession of food had been likely to be killed for it, if they weren't skilled enough to protect their rations. Tribes had formed out of necessity for self-preservation and territory wars had bloodied the lands in response. Of course, Voldemort hadn't given two shits about the quick decline of civilized society in the lower classes. As long as his Dark Regime and its Elite had been recognized as having supreme authority and the tribes had paid their taxes, whether with galleons or desired goods and services, he had been satisfied. In fact, the infighting between the half-bloods and blood-traitors _proved_ that pure-bloods, who were loyal to their blood, truly were the superior race, or so the Elite had liked to claim.

Ruthlessness had become the new anthem of survival, as the months passed and the territory wars turned to blood wars. By the time the year 2000 had rolled around, things had gotten so bad that the Resistance and the Dark Regime, though both sides had been fighting a drawn out war against each other, shared the common goal of keeping the tribes from completely wiping each other out. To this point, and out of desperation for his own survival and the survival of those under his command, Harry had taken to selling his and the Resistance's combat skills to the highest and most justified bidder under his assumed name of Porteur Demort. In return, the Resistance had progressively gained a steady source of food, galleons to trade with, information, and an expanding network of contacts. Runners had been setup to assist the tribes in circumventing the restrictions of the Kill Wards and to move goods between the tribes, so that the tribes didn't have to rely solely on the Dark Regime to attain the items that they needed, yet couldn't magic into existence – such as food, potions, and wands. The more vicious tribes had had their leaders assassinated and had been told to elect a new leader, who was better than the last, and to keep the peace, or it wouldn't be only their leader killed the next time. Of course, some hadn't listened and had ultimately met a bloody fate at the hands of the Resistance or the Dark Regime.

Over time, the operation of Runners had become a full out underground smuggling network and the Resistance's network of contacts had spread all across Europe. Progressively, the blood wars between the tribes calmed and with that calm, the oppressed had begun to turn their attention and anger to their oppressors. As the Runners became more and more successful in smuggling things into, out of, and within Europe, more and more tribes deflected from the control of the Dark Regime's strict rule. Their fighters joined the Resistance or the Runners, while the ones who neither wanted to fight, nor wanted to remain under the oppression of the Dark Regime, were smuggled out of Europe to Russia, the Middle East, and Africa, before dispersing across the globe.

Upon the situation in Europe stabilizing to a point where Harry had been comfortable with leaving Ron, the Talvace brothers, and a few other of his most trusted in charge of their multitude of operations, he had made the trek to Russia himself and had, with his personnel presence and refusal to accept 'no' as an answer, finally gotten the International Confederation of Wizards cooperation in setting up an emergency meeting. It wasn't until he had walked into the domed conference hall of the Confederation and had stated his birth name, as well as his widely recognized assumed name of Porteur Demort, and spent the following fortnight petitioning the Confederation for assistance in the Resistance's efforts against Voldemort and the Dark Lord's Dark Regime that things had truly started to look up for the Resistance, since the day that goblins had sold them out to the Dark Regime three years prior. Though the Confederation had been vastly busy and were sure to remain vastly busy with keeping the muggles of the world in the dark about what had been occurring in Europe, various nations had relent their neutral status and tetchy attitudes about the Europeans having let things get so out of control in the first place and had given promises of support by means of financial, medical, or physical aid. By that point, however, millions of European lives had already been lost and the only thing that they had had left to hope to gain was peace for Europe once more.

_Not this time,_ Harry thought fiercely, as he observed the two goblin sentries standing guard on either side of bronze door marking Gringotts's public entrance. _Fuck me over once, that's all on you. Fuck me over twice – like hell I'll let it happen a second time._ If he had his way, he'd screw the greedy cowards over royally, as he carried a sizable sum of their own gold out their doors.

"Harry?"

Harry looked several paces ahead of him to his father, having not realized that he had stopped walking. The bespectacled man was watching him with wary eyes. He forced a smile back on his face and pushed away his memories of the other world. He had a lot to do in this world, but now was not the time for him to go questing after horcruxes and ward stones, or plotting revenge against an entire race of magical beings, who technically hadn't yet committed the crime that he held them responsible for. Last night and this morning hadn't been the time either, though he had been sorely tempted to question Sirius about the Locket of Salazar Slytherin. Ultimately, he had decided to hold off on doing so for the time being; at least until he had had the opportunity to speak with Kreacher, who Sirius had divulged hadn't been freed but rather had been banished to work in the kitchens at Hogwarts. No, now was not the time for such things. Right now he needed to focus on getting settled within his environment and establishing his new persona within the eyes of his family, friends, and the general populace. His activities would soon be suspicious enough without people believing that they have reason to distrust him.

"How much do you want to bet that it will take over a half-hour for Ollivander to find me a wand?" Harry asked nonchalantly, as he started off for Ollivander's once more.

"Your mother would have my head, if I put a stake to that bet," James said, relaxing and falling into step beside his son.

Harry looked sideways at his father with a pointed look. If his mother ever found out all of what his father had kept and planned to keep from her, a betting stake would be the least of his worries. "If you don't tell her, I won't tell her."

James sighed in exasperation. "Fine, 10 sickles."

"5 galleons," Harry countered.

"Now you're just trying to take my money," James accused with a wry grin.

"Do we have a bet or not?" Harry asked, giving the man a smile that was back to being genuine and not at all forced.

"5 galleons," James confirmed with a nod.

Upon the two Potter reaching the dilapidated building with a single wand resting on a velvet pillow in its display window on the southern end of Diagon Alley, James opened the rickety door for a very familiar, graying haired witch leaving the shop with two other adults and a young boy in tow.

"Professor," James greeted respectfully. His eyes passed over the family accompanying the witch. The man, woman, and boy were all dressed in distinct muggle attire and all three had a wide-eyed, fascinated look about them, as if they could hardly believe that the world around them actually existed.

"James…Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall greeted in return, pausing just long enough to communicate an uncertainty about Harry's identity.

"Hello, Professor," Harry greeted politely. He could hardly blame her for the double-take. He didn't exactly look like his teenage self. He wasn't wearing his accustom glasses, as he no longer needed them do to his 23 year old self having preformed a ritual to correct his vision and enhance his ability to see in the dark and fog. The ritual had left an imprint on his very magic, which had transferred seamlessly to his new self. Plus, he had already dragged his father off to a vintage clothing shop a few blocks off of Charing Cross, which he had discovered existed in his last month of hunting the remaining Death Eaters occupying the London area in the other world. Though the shop had been abandoned with it windows broke out and a good amount of its products ransack in the other world, it was still open for business and seemed to be doing quite well for itself in this world. As it was, he had already exchanged his old attire for a pair of sturdy boots, black washed jeans, and a comfortable gray t-shirt, adding his bomber jacket over top.

"I had heard that you were on the continent with Lord Black," McGonagall remarked, as her eyes shifted questioningly from Harry back to James.

"We were," James said promptly, while giving no outward indication that he, Harry, and Sirius hadn't been on the continent over the last week.

As his father set about informing McGonagall about their 'trip', Harry turned his attention to the Whitbys – or so he assumed that the family accompanying McGonagall were the Whitbys, as he recognized the boy as being a younger version of the nineteen year old Kevin Whitby that he remembered fighting alongside in the other world. Kevin had been a good fighter, as well as unrelenting in his loyalty to him and moronically brazen at times. Although the blond haired youth had been sorted into Hufflepuff, he'd had the courage of a Gryffindor. He might even say that Kevin had possessed the cunning of a Slytherin as well, but there were definitely moments that _that_ had been debatable. Nonetheless, Kevin had ended up being one of the few muggleborns of Britain that had managed to survive the war. Lisa Turpin and Addison McCoy were the other two that he knew of, though he sincerely hoped, even now as a permanent resident of this world, that there were more survivors that he hadn't been informed of prior to his forced departure from the other world.

"Hello," Harry said warmly and extended his hand to Kevin. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Kevin," Kevin said, while tentatively shaking Harry's proffered hand. "Kevin Whitby."

"And we're Patrick and Jenifer," the dark haired woman, who was standing close beside Kevin, introduced herself and her husband, who was standing on the other side of Kevin, "Kevin's parents."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Harry said, shaking Patrick Whitby's hand and bowing his head politely to Jenifer Whitby. "You're muggles, yes?"

"They're muggles," Kevin said, lazily waving his hand between his parents. "I'm a wizard," he said proudly and, as if to prove that he was indeed a wizard, the blond boy withdrew a lightly stained wand from his back pocket and held it up for Harry's examination.

"Well, you are certainly more of a wizard than I am at the current moment," Harry joked and held out his empty hands to show his lack of wand.

"Are you a muggle-born as well?" Patrick asked, his blue eyes bright with interest and taking in Harry muggle attire.

"Nah, I'm a half-blood – one of my parents was born of muggle blood, while the other was born of magical blood," Harry clarified at the confused looks that he received from the Whitbys. "As for my lack of wand, I foolishly left it lying about and it got snapped yesterday evening."

"You hear that, Kevin," Jenifer said to her son sternly. "You best keep track of where you leave your wand. Heaven knows that room of yours is a mess. You really ought to clean it."

"Speaking of keeping track of your wand," Harry cut in, as Kevin scowled at his mother with a red face and mumbled something about embarrassing him, "putting your wand in your back pocket really isn't the best thing to do. An old Auror once told me a story about a mate of his blowing off his left buttocks."

"Where are you supposed to put it?" Kevin asked, now looking at his wand with unease.

"Aurors, Hit Wizards, and the like carry their wands in a wand holster on their wrist," Harry said, indicating to the small showing of his father's wand holster beneath the right sleeve of his father's robes. "It provides a quick draw. As for every day citizens, most keep their wands in the breast pocket of their robes." Harry scrutinized Kevin's wiry frame. Seeing that the boy was in jeans and a t-shirt with no jacket, he shrugged. "You'd probably have the best luck with keeping your wand in one of your front pockets for now. At least that way you won't sit on it and accidently set it off or break it."

"I take it you go to Hogwarts?" Patrick question, glancing to where James and McGonagall continued to exchange words in hushed tones.

"I'm going into my fourth year," Harry said with a nod, before moving to a topic that he hoped would keep the conversation flowing, while his father finished speaking with McGonagall. "Have you been informed of the house system yet?"

Receiving the negative response that he had been hoping for, Harry launched into describing the Hogwarts Founders and the traits belonging to the Houses of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.

As Harry wrapped up informing the Whitbys about the four houses, how the dorms worked, and taking meals in the Great Hall several minutes later, his father and McGonagall finally broke apart.

_About time,_ Harry thought, as his father came to stand at his side. While he liked Kevin well enough and didn't necessarily mind telling the Whitbys about Hogwarts, he was anxious to have a wand once more tucked up his sleeve. He felt naked without having a working wand on his person. It just wasn't right.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," McGonagall said to the Whitbys. "James, these are Patrick and Jenifer Whitby and their son, Kevin. This is James Potter," she looked to the Whitbys and gestured to James, "and you've met Harry," she indicated to Harry, "his son."

_A little late for formalities, Professor. _Harry regarded McGonagall with speculative eyes, as the witch continued on to explain to his father that she was assisting the Whitbys in purchasing Kevin's supplies for his first year at Hogwarts_._

"I'm an Auror," Harry heard his father tell Kevin, who had asked about the man's wand holster and whether he was an Auror or a Hit Wizard.

"What do Aurors do?" Kevin asked with inquisitive eyes.

"Aurors are similar to the detectives of the muggle police," James said kindly. "We catch bad guys and prevent bad things from happening."

"Cool!" Kevin exclaimed.

"It's pretty cool at times," James agreed, smiling at Kevin's enthusiasm. When he looked up from Kevin to the Whitby parents, he gave them an apologetic look. "I do hope you'll forgive us for interrupting your shopping."

"No need for apologies," Jenifer dismissed. "You've quite the polite young man. Harry was very pleasant company and very helpful. We're glad to have met him…and you, if anything."

"You're very kind, madam," Harry said, accepting the compliment with a grace that his teenage self wouldn't have been able to pull off if his life depended upon it. Sputtering and blushing furiously, while looking for an adult to shy behind, had been more of his style.

Upon stepping into Ollivander's dusty wand shop with his father a few minutes later, after having exchanged farewells with Professor McGonagall and the Whitbys, Harry raised an eyebrow at his father in silent enquiry of what his father and McGonagall had been discussing that had taken so long. Their cover story wasn't that elaborate. Sirius knew of a specialist in the Mind Arts on the continent who owed the Blacks a favor. Harry had spent a week with the man and had gotten his mind sorted – end of story. As far as anyone needed to know, his split personality had been mended, blending who he had been with his alternate persona that had developed out of his nightmares. It explained away the changes in his personality perfectly, as well as his knowledge and abilities. No one could contradict it, as each case of Dissociative Identity Disorder was different and the disorder was not yet fully understood, especially in the magical world. How it had taken his father so long to convey a few simple facts was beyond him.

"We'll discuss it at home," James said, while urging Harry further into the shop.

Harry nodded in acceptance and turned his attention to the silver haired, elderly man standing behind the mahogany counter at the center of the narrow store front. There were five wand boxes resting open before Gerrick Ollivander, who was watching him with curiosity and expectation, as well as a faint trace of apprehension.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ollivander," Harry greeted, as he stepped up to the counter.

"I'd ask what you did with your old wand, Young Lord, but I do believe that would turn into quite the tale," Ollivander said and gestured to the first box. "Give it a try: Blackthorn, phoenix feather, 11 ¼ inches – unyielding. It's a very powerful wand indeed."

"I am no lord, neither young nor full-fledged," Harry said, narrowing his eyes at Ollivander, as he picked up the wand. He wasn't a lord in this world, at any rate. The fact that he had been regarded as the Gray Lord of Europe in the other world had no bearing on his status in this world, and while the Potters had a decent amount of gold in both worlds, they did not have a seat on the Wizengamot or have an inherited title passed down from the days of the Wizards' Council and magicals intermingling with muggle nobility. Unlike the Blacks, Malfoys, Greengrasses, Macmillans, and several of the other older houses, the Potters were not a Noble House. Ollivander referring to him as a 'Young Lord' had no reference to his present or future, even if the oddity of a man had somehow picked up on his past designation in the other world.

What Ollivander said next, however, Harry had not expected and made it clear that he was not referring to his title of Gray Lord of Europe in the other world.

"Your magic disagrees, Mr. Potter, and your father knows very well from whom you hail," Ollivander spoke the words ominously, as his eyes traveled to James meaningfully.

"I'd hold your tongue, Ollivander," James said from his position by the door, his tone chilling and laced with an unspoken threat that promised nothing good, if Ollivander continued down the same line of conversation.

Harry stiffened at his father's snapped response, feeling his hair raise on the back of his neck, as his father's cutting words slid past him. He had never heard his father speak so coldly or so forcefully before. Slowly, he turned away from Ollivander and the selection of wand before him to look back at his father. James met his startled gaze with impassive hazel eyes and a carefully composed mask set upon his face that revealed nothing, yet said everything at the same time. Ollivander wasn't just blowing smoke. The elderly man had struck a nerve.

"Dad?" Harry asked, not quite sure what to ask or if he should even broach the subject at all at the moment. All he did know was that he was woefully ignorant about what Ollivander was referring to and his father knew something about it.

James remained where he stood for a moment's pause, before he strode forward with purposeful steps, took hold of Harry's shoulder with a gentle grip, and turned Harry back to face Ollivander and the selection of wands. He plucked the blackthorn wand from Harry's hand and returned it to its box without a word or sparing Ollivander a glance.

"What is this one?" James asked, upon actually looking to Ollivander. He tapped the box of the next wand in the lineup.

"Cypress, dragon heartstring, 10 ½ inches – springy," Ollivander said dutifully and then said nothing more.

Understanding his father's actions for what they were, Harry reached out for the wand. As he plucked it up from its box, he silently vowed that he and his father were going to have a nice long chat later…and not only about what his father had been discussing with McGonagall. In this world, he had yet to learn all that much about his heritage. In the other word, he had known next to nothing about the Potters. Apparently, he still had much to learn about who he was and exact from whom he hailed.

"Walnut, dragon heartstring, 12 inches – firm," Ollivander said without his usual mysticism, as Harry replaced the unresponsive cypress wand in its box and moved on to pick up the next wand in the lineup.

And so the process went. Harry tried the various wands that Ollivander provided him, all the while doing his best to ignore the way that his father's eyes bore into the side of his skull with greater intensity than they had the night before and much of the morning and to ignore the way that Ollivander had suddenly become all business with no exaggerated fanfare or unnecessary embellishments about the wands that he presented.

Harry tried wand after wand – few containing unicorn hair, some containing a phoenix feather, and most containing a dragon heartstring core. He tried a variety of woods – everything from acacia to sycamore to yew to fir. As the half-hour mark passed, he did not point out his winning of their bet to his father for the tense atmosphere within the wand shop did not permit it.

Finally, after several more minutes and many more wands, Harry felt the rush of the wand in his hand accepting his magic and unleashing it in its full brilliance with no detectable resistance. Red and silvery, dark gray sparks swirled around him, as he cut the wand through the air. He sighed in contentment at having a properly matched wand in his possession once more, relishing in the easy of his magic flowing through the wand. Upon opening his eyes – having not even realized that he had closed them – he found Ollivander regarding him with trepidation.

"Problem?" Harry asked, fed up with the man's strange behavior.

"No," Ollivander said and shook his head. "It is a fine wand. Cherry, dragon heartstring, 11 ½ inches – unyielding. It will serve you well."

If Harry wasn't imagining things, there was an attached 'maybe too well' to the man's statement that had gone unsaid.

"How much?" James asked, before Ollivander could say anything more.

"Twelve galleons, Mr. Potter."

As his father paid for the wand, Harry slipped his new cherry wand up the right sleeve of his bomber jacket. He'd ask his father for a wand holster for his birthday.

"If you ever breathe a word, Ollivander…" James left the threat hanging, while his eye told of a father capable of doing whatever was necessary to protect his son.

"None will here of the young lord's ascension from me." Ollivander bowed his head respectfully.

James hesitated and his eyes darted briefly to Harry, before returning to Ollivander. "You are certain?"

"It is unmistakable," Ollivander said assuredly.

Harry restrained himself with practiced self-discipline from asking about what was 'unmistakable' and what Ollivander meant about 'his ascension'. Instead, he bid Ollivander a good day and followed his father out of the wand crafter's shop. Back out on the main street of Diagon Alley, he found himself immediately drawn close to his father in a fierce embrace. The next second, he was being squeezed through a tight tube with the air being pushed from his lungs and his blood pounding in his ears.

Harry gasped wildly, having not been prepared for the sudden apparation, upon his feet reconnecting with solid ground and his body being released from his father's embrace and the magic that had gripped them both. He was about to demand for a bit of warning the next time his father decided to grab hold of him and apparate him away, when he faltered at the sight before him and nervousness abruptly clenched his stomach. He was home for the first time in nearly two weeks.


	14. Home

**Chapter 14 – Home**

For a long moment, Harry stared at Potter Cottage from where he and his father had apparated upon the stepping stone path leading to the cottage's oak front door. The garden gate was but a few paces behind them, latched closed as usual. In the high noon sunlight, the many pansy, begonias, tulips, and marigolds occupying the flowerbeds lining the ivy twined fencing surrounding the cottage's front garden were in full bloom with bees buzzing from one flower to the next and butterflies sunbathing on their vivid green foliage. The centuries old wattle and daub cottage had its windows thrown wide, letting in the warm afternoon breeze. Harry could hear the Weird Sisters blasting from around the back of the cottage, which he knew to be coming from Bethany's bedroom. She was particularly obsessed with the band's lead singer, Myron Wagtail, like most girls of her age.

Harry smiled at the thought of his younger sister and attempted to rid himself of his nervousness, which was entirely unwarranted, if he were to look at things objectively. This was his childhood home. His mother and sister were just inside waiting for his father and him to return. He may not be the boy that they had come to know over the last fourteen years, but he remained their son and brother. That had to count for something. They wouldn't reject him for being a bit different than they remembered. Their hearts wouldn't allow it.

"Come on," James said and rested a supportive hand on Harry's shoulder.

With the coaxing press of his father's hand, Harry took one step – then another – towards the front stoop. The sweet nectar of the garden's blossoms and the scent of the lawn having been freshly trimmed diluted with his every step, as the smells of homemade biscuits and a fresh baked meat pie wafted out to him through the cottage's open windows.

Upon reaching the front door, Harry reached out, gingerly turned the old iron latch, and pushed the weight of the door inward. The wail of Myron Wagtail belting "Do the Hippogriff" increased in volume, as he stepped into the long, white walled, photograph lined entrance hall beyond.

"For the love of Merlin!" James growled out between gritted teeth, as he stepped into the entrance hall behind Harry. Without waiting for his son to step aside, he stepped passed Harry purposefully and headed for the stairs off to the left side of the hall with an angry stride, all the while muttering under his breath.

Harry sighed, feeling only a small twinge sympathy for his sister, as he watched their father stomp up the stairs. But a moment later, Kirley Duke's guitar solo was abruptly cut short before it could even truly begin with his sister's bedroom door slamming open and his sister yelling out in furious protests.

"DAD!" Bethany's yell reverberated through the cottage just as loudly as "Do the Hippogriff" had been only a moment prior.

"I'm leave for a week –"

"Mum said –"

"Before or after you turned it down for the tenth time, only to turn it back up the second that she was back downstairs?"

Harry shook his head, knowing that his father's pronouncement was closer to the truth than his sister would ever admit, and headed for the kitchen to find his mother. _You're on your own with that, little sis. You're on your own._ He would have to say hello to her later, after their father was done scolding her.

As Harry passed through the arched doorway to his left, a little before the stairs and opposite another archway leading to the sitting room, and set off across the handsome dining room decorated in rich mahoganies and royal blues – the room rarely ever used outside of special occasions – he heard Bethany and their father's disagreement over the merits of blasting the Weird Sisters at full volume throughout the house develop into a full blown argument.

_You really shouldn't test him right now, Bethany,_ Harry thought warningly, knowing that his father's self-restraint had been severely strained over the last few weeks and that the man had been pushed even further on edge from their trip to Ollivander's. If she came out of their argument with only a few days worth of grounding, he'd be surprised. A full week to ten days of grounding sounded more likely.

"Well, _you _weren't here, so why does it even matter?"

_Make that definitely a week at the very least,_ Harry thought with exasperation. Bethany never had been able to hold her tongue when she ought to.

Upon rounding the framed archway leading to the kitchen that double as their dining room for day to day use, Harry felt himself pass through a static wall of magic. The instant that his father and sister's argument was cut off and his mother's melodic humming filled his ears, he knew the ward to be a silencing ward. Out of curiosity to see what ward his mother was using in specific, he stepped back through the wall of magic and then stepped forward through it for a second time, while paying close attention to the magic brushing against his skin.

"_Crevetace Sanctum_; not a bad choice." Harry smiled softly at his mother, as she whirled around – startled by his intrusion – from where she had been directing a knife to chop a variety of vegetables and a bowl of greens to rinse under a steady stream from the tap.

For a long moment, Lily Potter stood frozen in place, staring at Harry with her right hand clutched over her rapidly beating heart and her left hand clutching the counter behind her. Her eyes were wide and filled with emotion that flickered so fast from amazement to relief to uncertainty and doubt, before returning to wonder and hope. Harry remained stock-still and waited for the reaction that was sure to come, as her eye roved over him with scrutiny and she took in his form standing before her; healthy, whole, and of one mind.

"H-Harry?" Lily choked out, as her eyes took on a watery sheen and her grip on the lip of the wooden countertop counter slackened.

"Hi, Mum," Harry said into the quiet of the kitchen. He could not keep the relieved smile from his face, as he saw the love in her eyes.

As if Harry's response was all that Lily needed to hear, she rushed forward, hurriedly stepped around the center island at the middle of the room, and wrapped her arms around Harry in a suffocating hug.

"O-oh, Harry," she sobbed, as she held him close. "My baby, my b-baby boy – you're h-home. You're f-finally home. How I've m-missed you…"

Wrapping his arms around his mother, who was a few inches shorter than he was himself, Harry made sure not to tug on her long, auburn ponytail and allowed his mother to cling to him and thoroughly soak his shoulder with her tears. As she babble about him being home, how much she had missed, and how scared she had been that she had lost him – as well as how much she loved him and would always love, even if he was no longer the same as he had been before he had left – he did his best to sooth her and make out her muffled words.

"Shh, Mum," Harry said, as her halted babble gave out to heartfelt sobs. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I love you. Shh…everything is fine now. I promise." He move one of his hand up to the back of her head and cradled her close to him, while wishing that he could do more.

Upon feeling his mother's weight give way against him, Harry tightened his arms around her instinctively and kissed her hair. He wasn't entirely certain what to do, other than stand there and let her cry herself into exhaustion. Knowing how much she cared about their family and fretted over even the slightest of coughs or the smallest of bruises, he doubted that she had slept all that much in the last few weeks – not with him missing and then his father and him 'on the continent' with Sirius for the last week. Exhaustion would surely claim her soon with the torrent of emotion taking its toll on her.

_Or so I hope,_ Harry thought despairingly. He didn't like seeing his mother so upset. The entire situation was made worse for him, as he knew that he was the singular cause of her tears.

Harry wasn't certain how long they stood there. All he did know was that he was flooded with relief, upon hearing familiar footsteps enter the kitchen behind him. As he craned his neck around to look to his father, he gestured helplessly to his mother, who was still clinging to him as if her very next breath depended upon it. He loved his mother and was more than happy that she was happy to have him home and was as accepting of him as he had hoped that she would be, but calming crying women had never been his specialty. Half the time, he usually ended up making things worse. Though, so far, it didn't seem he was doing too horribly. He hadn't been able to sooth her tears, however he hadn't exactly made them worse either.

"Lily," James said gently and reached out to disentangle her from Harry. She went willingly, her blurry emerald eyes searching for her husband.

"J-James," Lily sobbed, as the man pulled her to him.

Harry didn't hear the rest of what she said, as she buried her face against his father's robes and her sobs that had somewhat calmed took hold once more.

"Yes, he is," James responded softly to her tearful babble, stroking a hand through her hair and disentangling her ponytail, while using his other hand to cradle her to him.

"I'm going to go find Bethany," Harry mouthed the words to his father and tilted his head towards the closed door to their right that led out to the entrance hall just beyond the stairs and near the backdoor.

"Check the back garden," James mouthed back and looked pointed out the window over the kitchen sink that viewed said garden.

Harry nodded his understanding and headed for the backdoor, stepping around the kitchen table and its spindle legged chairs. His father would know how to calm his mother down. Somehow, his father always knew just what to do to make all of them feel better.

Out in the entrance hall, Harry took an immediate left and exited the house through the backdoor that stood exactly opposite the front door. The cool shade that was slowly creeping across the back garden at an angle, as the sun made its daily pass overhead, felt pleasant against his exposed skin in contrast to the heat of the day and the exceptional warmth of the kitchen. Like in the front garden, the flowers in the back garden were in full bloom. Unlike the front garden that was mainly comprised of decorative plant life that lined along the ivy twined fencing defining their property, the plant life of their back garden was spread throughout the open area of their backyard and was most comprised of fruit and vegetable vegetation and various other plants that could be harvested for potion ingredients or directly applied medicinal purposes. Four rune stone pillars stood at the four corners of the vast garden. Though they weren't currently activated, Harry knew that in the late fall and throughout the winter into early spring they would provide a stable environment for the plants to continue to grow and flourish, as if were still mid-summer.

"Harry?"

Harry smiled at Remus Lupin, who was currently fighting with a flitterbloom a few paces up the garden path from the back stoop. If the shears in the werewolf's hands were any indication, the man was attempting to trim its wandering tentacles, which were indeed looking a bit long, as they had grown to extend past their usual four feet. He had to restrain himself from outright laughing at the man's predicament, as the tentacles curious prodded at the man's robes and pulled at the man's short, tawny locks. Unfortunately for all herbologists, flitterblooms were highly sensitive to active magic and wilted with even the most delicately applied Freezing Charm.

"Hi, Remus," Harry greeted and stepped down from the back stoop to assist his pseudo-uncle. He grabbed hold of the tentacle pulling at Remus's hair and gently stretched it out for Remus to trim. "Have you seen Bethany? Dad said she might be out here."

Remus regarded Harry with shrewd scrutiny, neither making to trim the flitterbloom nor to answer Harry's question.

"What?" Harry asked, plastering an innocent look on his face and pretending that the werewolf's suspicion was entirely off the mark. While he had his reservations about lying to his mother about who he truly was, he had no qualms about lying to Remus. The man did not need to know his origins and would only be a liability, if he ever did find out. _Best that he never does,_ he thought, as he met the man's distrustful gaze with open trust in his own eyes.

"Nothing," Remus said quickly, after a short pause, and snipped the flitterbloom tentacle that Harry was holding still for him.

Harry released the end of the tentacle that remained attached to the plant and discarded the trimmed end into the bucket beside Remus, which was filled with a purple color potion that would preserve the flitterbloom cuttings.

"Here," Harry said and caught hold of the tentacle Remus was attempting to stretch out and trim at the same time.

"You aren't supposed to be helping me, Harry," Remus chided, as he snipped the tentacle.

"Then you'll owe me one." Harry shrugged and repeated the process of discarding the trimmed end of the tentacle into the bucket, before grabbing another one.

Technically, Remus was right. Harry wasn't supposed to be helping the man, as the Potter family was paying Remus for tending their gardens with monthly Wolfsbane Potion on top of a decent sum of galleons. When Harry and Bethany had been little, Remus had tutored them in math, reading, writing, and geography as well. Now days, Remus tended the Potters' gardens in the afternoons, after having tutored Aries and Mira, Sirius and Mayra's two oldest children, in the mornings. As Remus wouldn't allow James and Sirius to bequeath him a vault full of galleons without having earned it, the setup was an all around win-win scenario. Neither Sirius nor Mayra had time to tutor their children, and Lily greatly disliked the idea of house elves and neither she nor James really had time to tend to their gardens. As a werewolf who found remaining employed to be a difficult task, Remus had more than enough time. The steady work and income assuaged the man's plight, as well as afforded him a decent flat and a comfortable lifestyle.

"How was the continent?" Remus asked, as he trimmed the struggling tentacle that Harry stretched out and held still for him.

"Demanding," Harry grinned through the lie, "but well worth it."

Before Remus could ask anything else, Harry got his answer as to where his sister was in the form of a happy shriek and a 4' 9" blur shooting out the backdoor of the house. Bethany jumped down the back stoop with her black hair flying wildly behind her and her hazel eyes bright with excitement.

"Harry!" Bethany exclaimed with delight, as she ran forward and clobbered him with an enthusiastic hug – very nearly knocking them both into the flitterbloom.

"Bethany," Harry greeted warmly and wrapped his arms around her in return.

Upon pulling apart a second later, Bethany stepped back and gave her brother a speculative once over. She lingered on his attire for a moment, however, after seeming to satisfy herself that he was unharmed and wholly intact – or at least appeared to be so – she merely raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked a single question. "What happened to your glasses?"

"I no longer need them." Harry shrugged, passing off his 'improved' eyesight as an inconsequential detail of his healed mind.

"Porteur didn't need glasses," Remus said and regarded Harry with calculating eyes, his suspicions seemingly renewed by the observation.

"No, he didn't," Harry agreed flatly and turned his full attention to Bethany. "Dad wasn't too harsh with you just now?"

Bethany's smile twisted into a scowl and irritation entered her eyes. "He grounded me for a week_ – _a whole _week!_ – just for having the phonograph turned up too loud for _his _liking. I was supposed to go to Demelza's house and stay the night on Wednesday. It's been planned a month – her brother, Kenver, is coming back from his expedition in South America and Mrs. Robins is throwing a big 'Welcome Home' party for him – and now Dad says I can't go!"

"You should have thought of that before you disobeyed your mother's warnings," Remus scolded without sympathy. "You knew your father and brother were coming home this afternoon."

"I've already heard it from Dad. I don't need to hear it from you, Remus," Bethany said, while glaring up at Remus. Upon turning her disgruntled look upon Harry, she took hold of her brother's hand and gave it a pull forward and away from the cottage. "Come on. I have to tell you what Romilda wrote me."

Feeling charitable, Harry extended Remus an apologetic look, as he allowed his sister to drag him away from the man and the partially trimmed flitterbloom.

"He's been so cranky, since you ran away," Bethany said moodily under her breath and huffed irritably. She steered Harry to the right, past the tomato plants that had several green fruits weighing down their leafy branches, and then left towards the far end of the garden. "Not that I blame you, what with them wanting to put you back in St. Mungo's," she hurried on, before looking up at Harry with searching eyes. "You're really okay now?"

"I didn't freak out when you tackled me back there, did I?" Harry asked, disentangling their hands and looping his left arm over her shoulders so that they could better walk side by side down the garden path. His sister leaned into his side with a content sigh.

"No, you didn't." Bethany wrapped her arm around Harry's back. This was familiar to them. They had walked the gardens together, hand in hand or arm in arm, ever since they were little kids. "I'm really happy, Harry. You worried me. Mom wouldn't stop crying, and Dad was horrible to be around. He wouldn't even look for you, you know. He just kept saying that there was nothing that we could do and that we had to trust you to return. Then he and Sirius up and disappeared, and the next thing we knew, you were on the continent seeing some specialist. And now…" she looked up at Harry, "now you're home – healed – just like that."

"The specialist wasn't a healer," Harry admitted, feeling he owed her a semblance of the truth – though definitely not the full truth. "He's a specialist in the Mind Arts." He reached up with his free right hand and tapped the side of his head. "He put things right up here. Before, I was living in two different realities. This one and the one I dreamt about. He healed the chasm between the two. Now, there's only this one and I know what is real and what isn't. It wasn't 'just like that', but he knew what he was doing. That's for sure."

"What are the Mind Arts?" Bethany asked curiously, as they rounded a bird bath at the eastern end of the garden and took off down the center path of the pumpkin patch, being sure not to trip on a few of the long vines that crossed over the path to the opposite side.

"They're something Dad probably doesn't want me telling you about," Harry said honestly.

"Dark Magic?" Bethany said, looking up at Harry hesitantly. They both well knew their father's views on the subject. While Harry had obtain himself leniency from James in exchange for obeying his father's decisions regarding his medical needs and overall safety, James would not be please to catch his two children discussing the Dark Arts in any way, shape, or form.

"Eh…more like almost, but not quite. It's a form of magic that is only ever as sinister as the one wielding it." Harry gave Bethany a reassuring smile. "There aren't a lot of people with true talent for it." _Only Snape, Dumbledore, Voldemort, me – need I go on…,_ he added cynically inside his mind, but knew that their father would really have his head should he worry Bethany needlessly. "If you're really interested, you could ask Dad about learning Occlumency. It's the defensive side of things. – Anyway, I thought you were going to tell me what Romilda wrote you."

"Oh, you won't believe it," Bethany said, her young mind easily distracted. "Romilda overheard her grandmother and Neville's Great-Uncle Algie talking about the latest votes for the open spot on the Board of Governors. Guess who is going to be filling the chair – come on guess," she urged, when Harry gave a one shouldered shrug.

"I didn't even know that there was an open chair," Harry said truthfully. He hadn't exactly been keeping up with current events the last few weeks, as he hadn't really had time to pick up a copy of _The_ _Daily Prophet _and look it over_._

"You didn't?" Bethany looked puzzled for a moment, before giving a dramatic sigh. "Of course, you didn't," she said and shook her head ruefully. "Okay, so get this: Tuesday, last week, there was some high to do meeting of the Professors, the Board of Governors, and the Ministry. They were supposedly coordinating funding or schedules or some such nonsense. _The Prophet_ didn't really give details on that bit. So, the whole lot are in the middle of this meeting, when…I know his name…he's that Celesta Burke's grandfather –"

"Lord Ainslie Burke," Harry supplied. He knew of the man, though he had only become familiar with Ainslie Burke's descendants in the other world, as the old man had died some time before the war broke out. Upon Ainslie Burke's death, the Burke Estate had been inherited by Lachlan Burke, who had proceeded to fill Voldemort's coffers quite nicely and to Imperius several Ministry officials in the year following Voldemort's rebirth in preparation for Voldemort's takeover of the British Isles.

"Yes, him." Bethany nodded. "He just dropped dead! Can you believe that?" she asked, aghast. "Right in the middle of the meeting, sitting in his chair at the table of the Board of Governors, he just died! Skeeter is having a field day."

Harry hummed. "I can imagine."

"Officially, they're saying that it was stress, but…with who is likely to replace him…" Bethany trailed off meaningfully.

"Who's replacing him?" Harry asked dutifully, knowing that she wanted him to either guess or ask. Gossip was a game to her. A year ago, she wouldn't have cared about what was published by Skeeter in _The Prophet _or what Romilda Vane's grandmother and Algie Longbottom were discussing behind closed doors. A year ago, however, she had yet to make friends with Romilda Vane, Demelza Robins, Victoria Frobisher, and Ilene Pennell. The five girls shared a dorm and gossip was apparently their currency with the Vane Heiress cashing in and redistributing the wealth. Even the two biggest gossips in his year, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, didn't have the reach throughout Hogwarts that little Romilda had established over the course of her first year.

"Tolus Talvace," Bethany whispered the man's name, as if the very man who she spoke of might hear her and apparate into existence before them.

"As in Gavid and Dunhan Talvace?" Harry asked, halting their leisurely stroll past the belladonna and looking down at Bethany.

Bethany rolled her eyes. "You're so hopeless sometimes, Harry. As in Mayra's father – though I think Gavid and Dunhan are her nephews, aren't they? Do you know them?"

"I know of them," Harry said. "They're old year Slytherins. Gavid will be a 7th year this year, while Dunhan will be a 5th year."

"I don't know many of the older Slytherins," Bethany said thoughtfully and began walking once more, pulling Harry along with her. They rounded the northeastern corner of the garden and began down a row of sugar snap peas. "The only ones I know are Marcus Flint and Zinnia Parkinson – and the others on their Quidditch team: Miles Bletchley, Cassius Warrington, Peregrine Derrick, and Lucian Bole. Romilda knows a lot of them though. She says most aren't worth the introduction. Did you know that Flint finally graduated last year?"

"Did he?" Harry asked, faking interest and playing dumb.

"Oh, yes," Bethany began, before launching into the tale of Flint's struggles to pass his exams for the second time.

With Bethany sufficiently sidetracked from pursuing the extent of Harry's knowledge on Gavid and Dunhan Talvace, Harry turned his thoughts to the two Slytherins that he had come to know in the other world. While he didn't know much about the Talvace family as a whole, as the two brothers hadn't liked to talk about their past – like everyone else, they had lost far too much, while retaining far too little of their loved ones – the brothers, upon their initial crossing of paths in Denmark, had informed him that they were the last of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Talvace of Britain and had later on, after having traveled together for some weeks, sworn to him their revenge against the Dark Regime for what had happened to their family with a furious passion that had left him with no doubt of their true allegiance. Over the course of the war, he had come to depend and trust the brothers as much as he had depended upon and trusted Ron, as the brother had nearly always been as good as their word, unforeseen circumstances aside.

From his teenage self's knowledge, Harry knew a bit more about the family. They were regarded as supporters of the Dark Arts and of the creed of pure-blood superiority and were known to associate with the Malfoys, Lestranges, Rosiers, and the likes. There was, of course, Mayra's marriage to his godfather nine years ago, after a two year engagement. As far as he knew, however, Mayra didn't share the views of the rest of her family on blood purity. Upon marrying Sirius, she had apprenticed at St. Mungo's of her own volition and her reputation as a healer soon marked her as being fair and just with all her patients. Within the last five years, she had become publicly, as well as privately, estranged from her parents and her eldest brother and sister-in-law. Harry did remember meeting her younger brother once, a few years ago. He couldn't remember the man's name, but the man had seemed decent enough, if a bit jokey about his sister allowing half-bloods, a half-breed, and a muggle-born into her home. Other than that one event, though, he couldn't remember ever meeting any other members of Mayra's family and had practically forgotten that Mayra's family name had been Talvace.

As for the Gavid and Dunhan of this world, his teenage self had kept an eye on the two, but had never approached them. Unlike the Talvace brothers in the other world, who had been forced to endure tragedy and face the resulting devastation of their beliefs being put to action, the brothers in this world were still very much in belief of their superior blood status and the liberty of their family's wealth. Not to mention, the two were much younger than the 20 and 23 years that he had initially come to know them. It was a shame, as both had been highly skilled in combat and warding in the other world, as well as good friends of his. He could only hope that his actions in this world would pull them to him, rather than push them towards the Dark Regime.

"Are you even listening to me?" Bethany demanded with a twinge of annoyance and scowled at her brother, upon giving him a nudge in the side.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about the prospects of Flint as the next Knight Bus conductor." Harry grinned down at his sister with mirth, picturing the bulking form of Marcus Flint dressed in the violent violet Knight Bus uniform and attempting to quote the standard greeting to all stranded witches and wizards through a crooked front-tooth smile that had no place on his sallow face, which was better fit for the Slytherin's ugly sneer.

Bethany grinned as well at the image her brother's words created in her mind, her eyes alight with shared mirth, before she broke out in full laughter. "Oh – I should – tell Romilda and – the girls!" she exclaimed, as she giggled joyously.

Before Harry or Bethany could come up with an even more hilarious future career for the dimwitted ex-Quidditch captain, a call from the direction of the cottage caught their attention.

"Harry! Bethany!" James yelled from the back stoop and motioned for them to join him inside.

"Be there in a sec," Harry yelled back. He steered his sister right and up the center garden path back towards the cottage, as he watch their father disappear back inside.

Upon entering the cottage and quickly washing up for lunch, their father informed them that their mother was having a kip and that it would just be them and Remus for the meal. Harry merely nodded and joined his father, Bethany, and Remus at the kitchen table. As he loaded up his plate with his mother's meat pie and another plate with a small salad, he grinned, the feeling of home washing over him.


	15. Kill Wards

**Chapter 15 – Kill Wards**

Normalcy, Harry decided, was the true enemy of a fighter's soul. It was stagnate, monotonous, and trying in a way so very different to the labor of an objective driven life. How his teenage self had reveled in long summer days spent at home with an adventure book in hand or lazed away with quality time spent with his family, he could no longer comprehend. Yes, he appreciated the downtime and the time spent with his family. He did, in fact, need the time to recuperate and fully reassert his sense of self. However, he had found himself restless within a mere few days of being home.

Rather quickly, his mother had picked up on his inclination to scan his eyes about his surroundings, as she or Bethany spoke with him, as well as the way that he would get a faraway look in his eyes whenever he was left to his own devises. Bethany had not been blind to his restlessness either, though she seemed to attribute it to a new quirk of his personality. While their mother had fretted over him and the changes she saw in him, Bethany had just taken the changes that she observed in stride. As for his father, Harry had not seen much of the man over the last week, as Scrimgeour had his father working double shifts to make up for the week that the man had taken off to 'vacation on the continent'. Apparently, Scrimgeour was not sympathetic to family plight.

Harry huffed a breath, into the cool, star blanketed night. He had spent his week at home. He had held off on all that needed to be done, in order to give himself and his family time to adjust to who he had become, as well as to establish a small buffer between his recovery from his supposed mental illness and the beginnings of his machination in the not-yet-begun war. With the week having finally passed, however, now – and for the foreseeable future, until Voldemort's soul was fully eradicated from this world – was the time for him to act. He was finally free to shed normalcy and do what he did best.

If events followed as they had in the other world, Harry knew that he would have a little less than a year before the Dark Lord would return. That meant that he had a little less than a year to prepare and put in place as many countermeasures as he could to counteract the Dark Regime's agenda in taking over the British Isles, before moving on to take over Europe, for he knew without a doubt that tracking down and destroying all seven of Voldemort's horcruxes in so little time was a fool's errand at best and a costly venture, paid for in innumerable lives, at worst. Europe could not afford for him not to be objective in his actions and not to know and obey his limits. While tracking down the horcruxes was a matter of grave importance, he knew all too well that it was not a simple matter, as at the current moment, all seven horcruxes' locations and very existence were unconfirmed and his ability to lay his hand on even one of them was dubious and, in some cases, impossible.

No, tonight Harry was not in pursuit of the pieces of Voldemort's fractured soul. In fact, tonight the thing that he sought was a far more tangible danger than any one of the Dark Lord's horcruxes alone. What he sought was the keystone to a sleeping power that expanded across all of Britain, just lying in wait to be activated – a promise of widespread devastation written into the rune stones that define its bounds and the lethal, very nearly tyrannical force that it possessed.

Upon reaching a great iron gate, Harry looked up the long winding, forest lined path behind him, his eyes piercing through the darkness in search of hidden dangers. The silhouetted branches of the trees swayed ever so slightly in the soft breeze whispering its way through the Cotswolds. An owl hooted off in the distance with another hoot answering its call, as the croaking of frogs and the song of crickets played merrily in background. For all appearances, there was nothing present that was out of the ordinary. Satisfied that he was still very much alone and that nothing lurked in the underbrush, preparing to attack him now that he was stationary and no longer on the move, he reached out to the lock baring his progression. With the brushing of his finger tips on the cold metal surface, a jolt of magic rushed through him, before receding back into the lock and altering the owner of the small, tucked away castle; the turrets of which he could see reaching up to the full moon high overhead just beyond the bend of trees up the way.

With a faint _pop!_ a fraction of a second later, a bedraggled looking creature of a short stature with floppy ears and a humanoid posture emerged into existence a few feet away from Harry, just inside the gate. Its large eyes goggled at him warily, upon it conjuring a light to see his form more clearly in the shadows cast by the moonlight and the thick, intertwined iron bars of the gate.

"Master expects no one," the house-elf said uncertainly. "Who is you, mister? What does you want? Master wants tos know, afore he decides tos lets you in or not."

"I do not seek entrance," Harry told the elf. "I seek your master. Tell Lord Black that his assistance is required in a matter of utmost importance."

The elf hesitated a moment, looking at Harry expectantly. When Harry still did not give his name and gave no indication that he would, it bowed and, with another _pop!_, Harry was once more left alone with only the sound of the night for company.

His wait was not long, which pleased Harry greatly, as well as amused him. His godfather was still pulling on his cloak, as he rounded the path descending from the castle and wearily marched his way down to the gate. At the sight of Harry, a pronounced scowl formed the man's lips.

"What the hell, Harry?" Sirius demanded and made to unlock the gate.

"It's not my fault that your elf didn't recognize me." Harry grinned. "It's probably better that it didn't, actually."

"And why's that?" Sirius asked, his grey eyes flashing with annoyance. With the gate unlocked, he stepped through it, though he hesitated in closing it behind him and held it open, as he looked down at Harry. "What are you even doing here? Do your parents know where you are?"

"Touchy, _touchy_," Harry chided; the grin never leaving his face. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Sirius gave him a sardonic look. "No, of course not, who in their right mind would be sleeping at one o'clock in the morning!"

Harry chuckled. "Come, we've got business," he said and turned to head back down the winding path. A large hand caught his upper right arm in a firm grip and pulled him back around forcibly. He gritted his teeth in response, fighting the instinctual urge to grab his godfather's hand and break every last finger, before drawing his wand and cursing the man. He did note with pleasure, however, that in grabbing his arm, his godfather had allowed the gate to swing closed.

"Harry," Sirius said seriously, regarding Harry with disapproval. "Do you parents know where you are?"

"Dad's working the night shift. Mum is brewing the base for her next batch of Wolfsbane. Bethany is at the Robins' house. No one, except you, knows where I'm at, and if you don't let go of me, I'll curse you, wipe your memory, and do what needs to be done on my own."

The matter-of-fact manner in which Harry spoke mixed with the promise to deliver on his threat that showed plainly in his infuriated eyes caused Sirius to release his hold on his godson, as if burned, and take a cautious step back from the teen.

A weighed silence passed between godfather and godson, before Sirius cleared his throat and seemed to come to a decision. "Where are we going?"

"That's not something that you need to know," Harry said, turning for a second time to head back down the path the way that he had come. Confident, this time, that Sirius would follow him without further interruption.

"At least tell me what we will be doing," Sirius said, as he hurried to fall into step beside Harry.

"You will be maintaining a diffuser stone. What I will be doing isn't something that you need to know."

Harry scanned his eyes about the underbrush lining the gravel leading away from Castle Black, continually checking for any signs of life outside of Sirius and himself. The full moon was not a good night to be out and about, but the power of the full moon was a promising means to locate the keystone that would power the other minor rune stones spread across Britain and would ultimately define the not-yet-activated Kill Wards. Back in the other world, he had had entire teams of warders and curse-breakers to trace the magic of the Kill Wards back to their individual keystones and figure out how to destroy the keystones in a relatively safe manner. In this world, he did not have such a luxury and had to work within his limits. An energy sourcing ritual performed on the full moon was the quickest and dirtiest way to discover the keystone's location, though highly costly and dangerous for a person not accustom to controlling and directing such a powerful flow of magic and only moderately costly, yet still highly dangerous for a person who was.

Harry and Sirius walked in silence for a full five minutes, before Harry felt them pass beyond the anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards protecting his godfather's property. He drew them both to a stop and offered his hand to Sirius. "We'll be apparating from here."

Sirius reached out a place his hand in Harry's outstretched hand without question or protest.

The moment that he felt his godfather's warm flesh against his own, Harry shifted his focus from his surroundings to a very specific set of coordinates. With a turn on his heel, the suffocating feeling of apparation consumed him and, a fraction of a second later, the cool, mountain air of the Scottish Highlands was wiping at his face and refreshing his lungs.

Just as Harry remembered the site being described to him in the other world by the team of ward specialist that he had working in the British Isles, a small valley spread between the mountainside that Sirius and he stood upon and the peak jutting into the night sky opposite them. Junipers and towering oak trees litter the valley floor below with wild grass creeping up the bowled sides of the narrow glen. At the center of the mass of trees was an oblong lake that reflected the stars and moon and the wispy clouds passing high overhead. An island protruded out of the calm, glass like surface near the lake's northwestern edge.

Harry breathed in deeply, standing as still as stone, as he scented the air and listened intently to the sounds of the valley. He grimace at the abrasive tang of lethal, immensely powerful magic that was only just detectable, if one were purposefully attempting to distinguish its odor. The silence that met his ears, outside his and Sirius's breaths and the soft rustling of the wild grass in the light wind sweeping up from the south, did nothing to alleviate the tension coiling his muscles or to assuage his suspicion of the problematic turn that his and his godfather's night had just taken.

Without a word of his worries to his godfather, Harry set off towards his target – intent on his objective, as he did not have time to rehash his plan and wait for the next full moon. By the next full moon, the opportunity to secure Bill Weasley's assistance in decoding the keystone with minimal suspicion would have passed, as the Quidditch World Cup and his ability to obtain the keystone prior to the international event would have passed as well. If he did not know of the power of the Kill Wards and to fear them as he did, he would have turned back, instead of proceeding forward, and allowed himself time to build up his strength to face the deadly power lying before him and to come up with another way to acquire Bill's assistance sometime over the coming year. He did, however, know what the Kill Wards were capable of and knew the danger – intimately – that they posed to Britain and would later pose to Europe, if he failed to destroy them before they were activated. He could not help but feel pressured to proceed, as his gut told him that to turn back and allow an additional month to pass without any concrete effort put towards the Kill Wards' destruct would be to condemn this world to a horrible fate.

Harry's boot crunched noisily through the dry grass and scuffed loudly against the rocks that made up the pathless terrain down into the moonlit valley. He could hear his godfather's footfalls following behind him, echoing back at them off of the opposing mountain face much the same as his did.

"Is there any reason that I shouldn't light my wand?" Sirius asked, upon coming to a particularly treacherous decline that had required Harry to slow in his pace and proceed down the mountainside with sideways steps.

"No," Harry said, carefully testing the stability of the terrain underfoot with his every step. "But I wouldn't expect that even a light spell would work at this stage."

Harry did not need to turn around and look at Sirius to know that his godfather's face had taken on a perplexed grimace. _Three…two…one…_

"Why?"

_And there it is, _Harry thought with a faint hint of amusement at his godfather's predictability. Before he could answer his godfather, however, a wave of dizziness struck him, sending his head and stomach swimming – the disorientation threatening to send him tumbling down the mountainside. A strong hand caught his arm just time, steadying him and preventing his head first dive down the mountainside.

"Har–" Sirius began with concern and took at step closer to his godson to better support the teen. His inquiry cut off abruptly, as his breath was stolen from his lungs and a wave nausea very nearly caused him to double over and lose his own footing. His worry for his godson was the only thing that save him, as it strength him against the sudden sickness.

Harry could feel Sirius's entire frame trembling through the hand still gripping his arm and knew that their position was precarious. Slamming Occlumency against the disorientation afflicting him and reinforcing his strength of will, he glared down into the valley, his eyes focusing on the small island at the northwestern edge of the lake. _500 yards to the edge of the wards…perhaps an additional 700 to the stone,_ he calculated the latter distance, while knowing the former distance without a shred of doubt.

"A light spell definitely won't work," Harry said, a faint mixture of anger and agitation lacing his voice, as he forced himself to stand with strength. "You can wait further up the mountainside, if you want to, Sirius. You don't need to go further, not really. The diffuser stone won't work with these wards."

"No!" Sirius said, his voice surprisingly strong for a man standing on shaking legs. With two infusing breaths, he released his hold on Harry all together and stood at his full height, swaying only slightly with the remnants of his nausea. "You're not going down there by yourself. You asked for my help and you're going to get it. Just tell me what you need from me, in order to do whatever it is that you intend to do."

"The force of the sickness will get worse," Harry warned, looking up at Sirius. "How good is your Occlumency?"

"Good enough," Sirius said assuredly.

"We'll see," Harry said and started down the mountainside once more.

By the time that godfather and godson had reached the tight cropping of trees at the base of the valley and what Harry pronounced to be the edge of the wards, both were exceedingly pale and looked worse for wear.

Harry steeled himself, as he stepped up to the edge of the wards, knowing that he was about to feel a whole lot worse than he already was. With his right hand outstretched, he closed his eyes and fully opened himself up to the vicious magic radiating off of the wards. Revulsion and the urge to rid himself of his stomach contents hit him with such a fury that choking bile was half way up his throat before he could even attempt to consider quelling his body's reaction. With his head spinning anew, as he had dropped every last shred of mental protection against the sickness, he could only bend over and do his best not to sick up on his boots. He vaguely felt feel his entire body shaking, as well as his godfather rubbing soothing circles into his back and assisting him in remaining upright. Again and again, his stomach contract against his will, until there was nothing left within it and he was reduced to dry heaves.

"Harry? Harry?"

Harry ignored the urgent inquiry of his godfather, as his weak knees gave out. Crouched with his elbows braced against his quaking knees and head braced in his hands, he forced his mind to muddle through the disorientation and sickness affecting him and focus on the magic assaulting him. _Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out,_ he chanted in his mind in an effort to sooth his rolling stomach and befuddled thoughts. With his awareness somewhat restored, he was able to focus on the feeling of the magic from the wards steadily washing over him, as if it were a heartbeat – pulse after pulse creeping across his skin in a rhythm not-unlike the ebb and flow of ocean waves crashing against rocky shores.

Harry groaned, knowing what he had to do next, yet dreading it with every fiber of his being. He allowed himself an addition ten minutes to accustom himself to the hostile environment created by the magic pulsating off of the wards. Slowly, as the ten minutes passed, he was able to stop his body's quivering, though he wasn't able to do much for the way that his head continued to pound and his stomach clenched upon itself.

"Harry?"

"I'm all right," Harry said, this time managing to answer to his godfather's inquiry.

"No, you most certainly aren't," Sirius said from this crouched position beside Harry, his hand still on Harry's upper arm and keeping the teen from falling forward into his own bile. "You were sicking up blood, Harry. You're not all right."

"Side effect," Harry said dismissively, while bracing his hands on his knees and pushing himself up to stand.

Sirius stood with him, his grip tightening the slightest bit in preparation to catch his godson should the effort prove to be too much for the teen.

"I'm all right," Harry reiterated, placing his hand over his godfather's hand on his arm and looking up at the man with confidence and stability in his stance.

Reluctantly, Sirius released his grip.

Harry gave his godfather's hand a reassuring squeeze, before stepping away from the man and turning towards the wards. He traveled several paces along the edge of the wards with somewhat wobbly steps in his magic addled state. After five paces, he outstretched his right hand towards the wards for a second time. This time, he was already accustomed to the sickness and his mind was already open to the magic radiating off of wards. He stepped closer to the wards, as he continued along his path, his mind focused on one objective.

_This would be so much easier with active magic,_ Harry thought despondently, as he felt his fingers inch closer to the chill of the wards. Already, it was as if the very tips of his fingers had been dipped into a glacial stream. He knew that soon enough that he would be touching solid ice in a metaphorical sense – solid ice that would freeze him in an instant, stopping his heart mid-beat and his lungs mid-breath, if he let it. If he was able to use active magic, or wand magic as referred to by the uneducated, he would not need to tempt fate at all in such a manner, in order to locate a gap between the rune stones maintaining the wards. Unfortunately, with Kill Wards, the only form of magic that would work within 500 yards of their perimeter was passive magic and he wasn't quite good enough at utilizing passive magic to detect wards, active rune stones, and the like without direct contact, magic on skin.

It was a truly unsettling feeling, knowing that by necessity, he had to allow the very thing that could kill him to invade his being. As he pushed his hand deeper into the icy stream and allowed the magic to flood him, he closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on life. The memory of walking through the garden with Bethany not a week ago filled his mind: her vibrant face, the sun's warmth on his skin, the vivid colors of the plant life that they had passed on their leisurely stroll, Bethany's laughter ringing true in the warm, afternoon breeze, the sweet aroma of the flowers and his mother's cooking filling his lungs. The memory was so tangible in his mind that he almost felt as if he had returned to the moment. He could feel the press of his sister thin arm against his back, the grip of her dainty hand on his waist, and the warmth of her body along his side.

In a jolting, terrifying moment, Harry felt his fingertips press against ice and the memory was very nearly ripped away from him to be replaced with death – a cold, cruel current attempting to penetrate his soul and still the vital functions of his body that provided him with continued life. He gasped and shook, his heart faltering in his chest and his lungs struggling to expand with the breath that would sustain him. The sickness twisted his insides upon themselves and threatened to split his head in two, causing him to fall forward and press his palm flat against the ice barrier that he could feel, yet could not see.

"No," Harry refused through gritted teeth, as he felt the magic pulling at his soul, attempting to steal it from him and make everything that he was and would ever be a part of the ice. "No."

With great effort, Harry clawed at his memory of life, which was quickly slipping away from him – desperately fighting against the chill of the ice consuming him. As Bethany's laughing face swam into his vision, he latched onto it with all that he was and poured his full concentration into rebuilding the safety of the memory around him. It was faint at first, but the musical laughter that was uniquely Bethany filled his ears and with it he felt the soft afternoon breeze brush against his face. The abrasive tang of death subsided, as it was replaced with the sweet aroma of flowers and fresh baked meat pie. At last, the sun claimed the clear, blue sky, providing him with its warmth and infusing him with life. There was a distinct crackling of fracturing ice, as the last vestiges of the frigid hold that the magic had on his soul was broken and fell away.

Harry let out a slow breath, holding the memory of life in his mind – a part of him acknowledging that the strength of this particular set of the Kill Wards was not as strong as the ones that had isolated entire nations in the other world. The grip of death had left him far quicker and much easier than the last time that he had done the same outside France. _Fewer sacrifices,_ he thought with certainty. _And fewer trapped soul since their creation, if any at all._

Very slowly, making sure that the memory did not slip away from him for a second time, Harry allowed awareness of his surrounding and the magic that he was touching to come to him. With caution, he opened his eyes, finding the moonlit forest before him superimposed with the image of his family's back garden. The cool wind from the south mixed with the warm afternoon breeze and the silence of the night echoed with Bethany's merry chatter.

Harry smiled, feeling the rush of the knowledge that he had control of an immense power. The magic of the Kill Wards pulsing through him and connecting him to the wards was his to tap into and his to command. While he couldn't destroy the wards or magically circumvent them without altering the rune stones powering the wards, he could trace the magic and locate the rune stones.

Wrapping the memory of his afternoon with Bethany in the back garden firmly around himself, he focused on the feeling of the ice barrier beneath his palm. It wasn't truly ice, he knew. It was something far more disturbing and sinister, but he'd rather not think about the trapped human souls woven into the impenetrable wall of deadly magic that gave the magic the true feeling of death, while assisting in fueling the magic of the wards with their life's blood, magic, and their very essence. He had long suspected that the memories of the sacrifices fueled the malevolence of the wards as well, as he had been told that Voldemort had used the blood of 100 convicted men to create the Kill Wards over Romania in the other world and those wards had been particularly fierce. He alone had been strong enough to confront them.

_Just like Voldemort to make life difficult. Why not ward his inactive rune stones with a contained version of their total creation?_ Harry thought with sarcasm and irritation, as he reached out with his senses towards the wards, being sure to intertwine his will with the will of the magic from the wards already pulsing through him. Dealing with Kill Wards was very much like dealing with a human mind. They had their own awareness and did not depend upon their creator for instruction – only abiding by the rune stones that define them – which gave them a very human like quality in that they were almost an independent entity; so alive, in a sense, that their defenses would lash out discriminatorily: cutting down a rabbit for barely brushing their surface with its tail hairs, yet allowing a person, such as himself, to trick them into believing that he or she was a part of their total make up.

Harry knew that as far as the wards were concerned, they believed that they had succeeded in collecting his soul, despite the fact that he had retained his life and his soul continued to inhabit his body. As long as his will appeared to align with their own, they would continue to ignore his intrusion, until the moment that he attempted to break his connection with them.

_And for the easy part,_ Harry thought to himself, as he juggled the mental tasks of concentrating on the chilling flow of magic beneath his palm, keeping his memory of life clear in his mind, and sustaining his strength against the sickness inflicted upon him by his proximity to the wards.

Harry shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Focusing a good majority of his concentration on the magic flowing through him and into the ward, he allowed it to submerse his overall awareness in its current. Instantly, he could feel the way that the magic spiraled upwards and followed along a determined path with one central focus point as its destination. _The keystone,_ he acknowledged. Just as he had suspected, the keystone was roughly 700 yards west-northwest of his current position. He didn't doubt for a second that its resting place was beneath the island of the lake.

Locating the keystone, however, was not Harry's objective. He needed to know where the outlying minor rune stones were. To this point, he focused on reversing the flow of the magic. It was a delicate and complex process, but just like he was capable of leading a human mind to a specific memory without the person noticing his manipulations, even if the person was a decent Occlumens, the Kill Wards were susceptible to his will all the same. It was one of their two weaknesses: their human like quality. It was the souls trapped within them that gave them such strength and power, as well as such a weakness.

Through careful manipulation of the icy current of magic, Harry began to confuse the wards of their direction. He wasn't entirely sure how long his efforts took him, but soon enough, the current reversed. It was tentative at first. As he threw power into the new direction of the current, its pace picked up with more confidence. With great surprise, Harry only picked up on three outlying points of focus for the magic. The configuration was weak. Even with its contained area, he had been prepared for at least the five point configuration that was used as a standard for most ward schemes.

_North-northwest. _Harry pinpointed the closest rune stone. _Southwest._ He pinpointed the second closest rune stone. Fifteen paces to his left, along the outer wall of the wards, and he would be at the mid-point between the two. From that point, he could exploit the Kill Wards' second weakness and get on with his night.

_And now for the hard part,_ Harry thought, as he began to pull his awareness away from the wards and focus a majority of his concentration on his memory of life. This was going to hurt.


	16. A Bad Job

**Chapter 16 – A Bad Job**

Harry fell to the ground screaming, pain pounding through him so intensely that he was lost in it, wholly incoherent of his surroundings. There wasn't any part of him that didn't hurt, that didn't feel as if acid had burned through his veins and corroded his muscles and bones and ate through his internal organs. He could do nothing to hold back his screams, just as he could do nothing but continue to attempt to employ Occlumency to block out the throbbing, unending ache consuming him.

Using one's physical being to channel large amounts of magic passively was always a hazardous affair. There was always the risk of overtaxing one's innate magic, body, or both, which often resulted in unpleasant side effects, such as fatigue, the shakes, a skull splitting headache, and, in the worst cases, permanent mental or internal injury followed up by death. The art of channeling magic in such a manner without doing oneself harm was a learned one. With active magic, the added focus of a wand, staff, or an enchanter's crystal greatly assisted in controlling the magic flowing through one's system, allowing a witch or wizard to dictate how powerful their spells will be and, in general, to avoid overtaxing his or her system – acts of stupidly aside, of course. Passive magic, on the other hand, took a great deal of effort and skill to not only control, but use without outright doing oneself in. If one lost control of the magic or channeling the magic became too much for one to handle, there was rarely a clear way to cut off the flow of magic and there would be no assistance from a outside focuser to help in bring the magic back under control. Once the magic was out of one's control, usually, the only option was to ride the magic out and pray to whatever god or gods that one might worship to be strong enough to survive the rampaging magic.

While Harry hadn't quite lost control of the magic of the wards – not until the very last possible second of physical contact with the wards at the very least – he felt like he had lost control of it for a significant length of time, as the only way that he knew of to escape the wards with his life was to break the wards' hold on him as quickly as he could possible do so. He had rushed the magic of the wards out his body, using what little free magic lingered in the air and earth around him, only to channel the free magic back out of him just as quickly to avoid losing control of the magic that he was work with too soon. It wasn't necessarily that he had channeled too much magic for him to handle. He had simply done it too fast. Not to mention, the sinister nature of the wards combined with their final attempt to pull him into death just as he had broke contact with them, hadn't assist him in the least.

_Smack!_

Harry's screams cut off and he drew in a jagged gasp, as the physical sensation of a large hand slamming across his cheek rocked through him. Suddenly, with the new throb of pain in cheek upsetting the status quo of the ache consuming him, he was aware of the chill of the night on his skin, the pulsing, deadly magic radiating off of the wards not feet away from him, and the fact he was lying on a very uncomfortable patch of grass that was knotted with roots and with what felt like several sharp stones, which were protruding into his back. Not entirely certain of when he had closed his eyes, he blinked his stinging eyes open, banishing the last vestiges of his isolated world of pain, to find the blurry, starry night overhead and his godfather's hazy, worry filled and stricken face hovering mere inches from his own.

"Harry – _damn it!_ – answer me!" Sirius practically yelled, while giving Harry's shoulders a vigorous shake. "Harry!"

With pain still pounding in his veins with his every heartbeat and now the throbbing where Sirius's hand had made contact with his cheek, the shacking of his shoulders was doing nothing for his state. His reaction to his godfather's assault, Harry felt, was well warranted and hardly to be helped, as it was as much instinctual as it was a conscious reaction.

"Bloody hell! What the fuck was that for?" Sirius cursed, drawing away from Harry with a bloodied nose, which was the result of him having caught Harry's right hook square in the face.

"N-now we're eve-ven," Harry grunted out and reached up to hold his throbbing head, hoping that the world would stop spinning just long enough for him to focus on his Occlumency properly.

"Like hell we are," Sirius growled, and before Harry could as much as protest, he had hauled the teen to his feet.

It took Harry a moment to work through the dizzying sensation of being brought to stand so quickly, the pain afflicting every part of his body, and the lingering sickness threatening his stomach with another round of dry heaves to realize that he and Sirius were moving and that Sirius wasn't helping him walk, but had rather hoisted him around the middle against his hip and was practically carrying.

"Let go!" Harry demanded furiously and made to elbow his godfather in the side, thoroughly annoyed with his predicament and the uselessness of even attempting active magic at the current moment. A hex or two would have handled the situation quite nicely.

"No," Sirius refused, gritting his teeth against the brunt of Harry's bony elbow to his abdomen.

"Sirius, stop fucking around," Harry said, as he continued to attempt to escape his godfather's ironclad hold, wiggling and straining against the man.

"We're going home," Sirius said resolutely and gave no quarter, as he carrier Harry farther away from the Kill Wards and along the narrow bend of the glen to the north, following a shallow stream.

"No, we aren't!" Harry put all the strength that he had into his struggle against his godfather's hold, while mentally cursing the weakness of his teenage body and his weakened state. He was going have to do something about this body's lack of muscle and stamina. In the other world, even with all that he'd done and suffered, he would have had Sirius out cold by now. Then again, in the other world Sirius was dead and had been for several years, plus no one in their right mind would have attempted to pick up Porteur Demort and haul him around like a rag doll, while dictating their destination and ignoring a direct command to release him, but that was beside the point. "Sirius, you are going to severely regret this, if you do not put me down – _NOW!_"

"Sorry, kid, godfatherly duties and all," Sirius said unconcernedly, his pace faltering and steps scuffing on a few loose rocks near the edge of the stream, as he adjusted and then tightened his hold against Harry's attempted to gain leverage in pushing away from him by twisting to wedge his elbow between their bodies. "You're going to live to see your fourteenth birthday and many more birthdays after that, if I have anything to say about it. You're not killing yourself tonight. I won't allow it."

"I'm not trying to kill myself. I'm trying to ensure that you and your wife and children live to see the new millennia!" Harry snapped back irritably. "But if you want to perish at Voldemort's hand, please do be my guest and apparate us out of here as soon as you can."

There was a moment's pause and then Sirius had Harry back on his feet and standing in front of him on the loose rock by the quietly trickling stream. The man's grip on Harry's upper arms, as he held Harry in place facing him, was just as firm and unyielding as his grip had been around the teen's middle a moment prior, as he had held off against Harry's attempts to escape him.

Sirius's eyes were grave and shimmered a dull gray in the moonlit, as he gazed down at Harry. The spark of optimism and life that Harry had known the man to possess more often than not was nowhere to be found. "Just how crucial is your success tonight?" he asked, the words strained, yet deadly serious.

"Somewhere along the line of hundreds to thousands of lives verses millions of lives," Harry said, his own face marred with the gravity of the knowledge that he possessed in regard to the possible future that this world would face should he fail in his mission to dismantle the Kill Wards.

"You nearly died back there, Harry," Sirius said, his voice tight with grief and concern. "For a moment…I-I thought that you had. You all but stopped breathing – you do realize that, don't you?"

"I know what I'm doing, Sirius. Trust me." Harry forced himself to pull himself together and look as confident as he felt about his capabilities. Sure he was still in a significant amount of pain, felt half-sick, and was shaking with the raw adrenaline pumping through his veins, as his body attempted to combat the onslaught of pain and general unpleasantness assaulting him, but all that had no bearing on what he knew that he was capable of. He just needed a few minutes to get his Occlumency fully in order and he would be good to go another round, so to speak.

Harry _had_ endured and fought actual battles in the other world, when he was in a much worse condition. In fact, with over 250 yards of distance now between him and the edge of the Kill Wards, Harry's mind felt significantly clearer of the wards' influence and, with each passing second, the pain from rapidly detaching himself from the Kill Wards was naturally lessening. He, after all, was well practiced at burning magic through his system without doing himself too much lasting damage, as well as well practiced at confronting various strengths of Kill Wards and these Kill Wards had most definitely been much weaker than what he was used to. Their weakness, however, did not at all disappoint him and suited him more than fine, as he was weaker – physically at least – compared to any other time that he'd went up against a set of Kill Wards in the other world.

"I won't actually be messing around with the wards anymore tonight," Harry said, upon noting that Sirius didn't look very convinced of his previous statement. "I promise, Sirius. I'm more than capable of handling getting past the wards without having to expose myself to them again."

"The only way to get past wards is to go through them or to dismantle them to their very core," Sirius said knowingly, his gaze accusatory.

Harry grinned at Sirius with mischief, for it had been mischief enabled by the ample use of a certain Marauder's Map in the other world that had ultimately led him, the Weasley twins, and Bill to coming up with a way to get around the Kill Wards…get around a good majority of wards actually, once they knew where the wards were anchored and plotted out the weakest point for a breach. The wards protecting Hogwarts, for example, currently had seven breaches in their defense, five of which had been purposefully installed by the Founders. "Bypassing wards doesn't always meaning going through them or dismantling them, Sirius, though with a majority of wards, I do admit, it is often quicker or much safer to do so."

Sirius raised an inquiring eyebrow, still looking skeptical that Harry's promise not to mess about with the Kill Wards anymore that night was legitimate, though the strength of his hold on Harry had lessened by a barely noticeable amount of pressure.

"Have you ever wondered why medieval castles were constructed with moats around them?" Harry asked, deciding that reasoning with his godfather with logic and facts would get Sirius's cooperation faster than just blatantly giving his godfather the solution to the wards and hoping that the man would take his word for it and allow him to get on with doing what had to be done. "You know, back in the days when our existence wasn't a secret and kings and lords often had a trusted wizard or two on retainer to defend them and their people from the magicals that roamed the lands."

"They were used as a preventative against their enemies storming their walls," Sirius said with a hint of uncertainty, as if he understood that his answer wasn't the answer that Harry was looking for, even though it was the correct answer to the question that Harry had posed him.

"That was the moats overall function," Harry agreed. "However, I ask that you take into account the elements: air, water, earth, and fire, and their magical properties. The first two: air and water, conduct magic with relative easy, while earth can only conduct powerful magic and only to a certain extent. Fire, on the other hand, is not very conductive of magic at all and is better for absorbing magic and altering its energy to feed its flame. Am I wrong in assuming that you are aware of this?"

Sirius gave Harry a look that clear said that he was and that he wasn't entertained by the impromptu lecture on magical theory.

"Right then," Harry said and continued as if Sirius wasn't glaring at him. "Ancient wizards capitalized on the moats around their king's or lord's strongholds, using their watery depths to extend their ward schemes past ground level and deeper into the earth. The moats served to not only dissuaded muggles from tunneling under or merely scaling over the medieval king's and lord's castle walls, but to dissuaded wizards from attempting to circumvent the protections placed over the strongholds by merely tunneling under the wards and proceeding to bridge across the moat and blast away the castle walls. 12 feet isn't much digging, but 30 to 50 feet is a whole lot of digging and takes time, even with magical means, which made such activity all the more easily and more likely to be noticed by a king's guard and put to a stop, before the breach actually occurred."

"That's your plan?" Sirius asked, taking from Harry's lecture what Harry had intended for him to take. "You're going to tunnel under the wards?"

"They're anchored to rune stones," Harry said, his tone suggesting what he was suggesting was perfectly reasonable. "While that makes them powerful and long lasting and means that they are nearly unbreakable without physically getting at the rune stones themselves, it still doesn't change the fact that those stones cannot be buried more than 12 ft below ground. It also doesn't change the fact that the greater distance from the stone that one digs, the less depth the magic of the wards is actually able to penetrate the earth."

"Tunneling under wards is a myth, Harry," Sirius very nearly yelled with frustration and disbelief, but manage to keep enough control of his emotions not to. "It doesn't work and has never worked. It is not possible. I never would have taken you to believe something so foolish."

"Do you know where that supposed myth came from?" Harry asked, regarding his godfather with patience.

Sirius frowned and narrowed his eyes at Harry, but gave no verbal answer.

"_Us_, Sirius," Harry said, indicating between him and Sirius. "We, wizards, started that lie and now, centuries later, we accept it as fact. I can only guess that our ancestors got tired of digging moats and constructing their homes on islands or over lakes and rivers, or by doing so it had become impractical and near impossible to tunnel under wards and that was how the myth got started. If you really don't want to take my word for it, just consider the secret passageways in and out of Hogwarts. How many times did you and Dad use them to sneak down to the Hog's Head without ever getting caught or anyone ever being the wiser that you bypassed the castle wards? – because that is what you were doing. You bypassed the wards every single time that you used one of those tunnels."

"Those tunnels were designed –" Sirius began in protest.

"Yeah, we thought so too," Harry interrupted, "until desperate times called for desperate measures, and we were willing to try anything to escape a premature grave. There is nothing but mounds of earth that prevent the wards protecting Hogwarts from penetrating every single one of those secret passageways. Done right, tunneling under wards becomes a very simple matter."

Sirius glanced back over his shoulder to where the invisible Kill Wards radiated their deadly magic out into the night. There was conflict visible on his face, as if he wanted to finish dragging Harry home, yet a part of him – the part that wasn't Harry's godfather or James's best friend – understood and accepted the situation without the bias of fear, concern, and responsibility that came with his position as the adult in this situation.

"Look," Harry said with a sigh, "in about 300 more yards magic shouldn't be a problem and we'll be far enough away from the wards that we won't really feel them. I'll take a breather and regroup, before setting about breaching the wards. Is that a good enough compromise? I'd rather not argue about this anymore than we already have." _Or escalate this to a physical fight, _went unsaid, but the determined look that he gave his godfather said as much.

"James is going to kill me," Sirius muttered and reluctantly released his hold on Harry, before motioning for Harry to lead the way.

Harry grinned. "Who says Dad ever has to know?"

They stumbled up the bank of the stream, until they reached a relatively flat grassy area that was dotted with a few trees that Harry felt was far enough away from the wards. As Sirius looked the area over, Harry cast a tempus spell. _03:11_, the glowing magic read suspended in the air_._ He glowered at the spot that the magic had been, as it faded away. Restlessness with a dose of anxiety for the lateness of the hour stirred within him. He had lost over an hour locating the rune stones.

With the knowledge of how late it was getting, Harry set his mind on remaining idle just long enough to mentally prepare himself for bypassing the wards and venturing beyond them to perform the energy sourcing ritual.

Sirius, however, seemed to have other plans. The man cleared and built a pit in the grass and set a fire alight within it using the fallen tree limbs and random sticks lying about. He urged Harry to sit down on a boulder near the fire and submitted himself to a medical scan to ensure his health. The fact that Harry's heart beat steadily in his chest and that, outside of the minor side effects of lingering pain, a bit of a headache, and a vague dizziness, he appeared to be in good condition perplexed Sirius, who had been certain that he had practically witnessed Harry's death.

"Are you aware of just how the powerful human mind is?" Harry demanded with indignation, while fending off his godfather's continued attempts to check his heart rate for a fourth time – a procedure that the man had no doubt learned from his wife. "It's is the gateway to body, magic, and soul – the physical, the metaphysical – it is the source of our every subconscious action and thought and allows us to enact our will over ourselves and all that is around us. If I bloody well want my heart to beat just so, I can make my heart beat just so. You aren't going to find anything wrong with me, Sirius, so back the off – yeah?"

"It's unnatural," Sirius said in return, his eyes flickering with irritation in the firelight, yet his underlying curiosity showed plain as well. "A person doesn't just almost die – become chalk white, practically stop breathing, and radiate the feeling of ice cold death – only to fall to ground screaming his head off, flushed with warmth and life in less than a second. Of all the magics that I've ever read up on or heard of, I've never…"

"You really don't want to know what magics are at work in those wards, Sirius," Harry said, pinning his godfather with a severe look.

Sirius regarded Harry pensively. "You're really all right?"

"For the most part," Harry said honestly and held his hands out to warm them over the fire. He was cold. "I might need a day or two to recover, but I won't suffer any lasting damage."

With a resigned huff, Sirius settled himself down by the fire – his eyes never leaving Harry – and allowed silence to lapse between them.

With the light rustling of the southern wind brushing over the grass and rattling the tree leaves, the faint crackling of the fire, the low murmur of the stream, and his and Sirius's breaths the only sounds filling the silence, Harry shut his eyes and focused his awareness inward. A few minutes would be all that he'd need and were, in fact, all that he could afford, as the sun would rise in less than two hours.

When Harry returned to the edge of the Kill Wards, Sirius did not return with him. Harry had told the man that he had no need of his assistance, as well as had given the man his promise that he would return no worse for wear before sunup. Sirius had not been happy about it, but he had agreed to remain by the fire, as he had outright refused to return home without Harry. In truth, Harry couldn't guarantee his future condition to his godfather, as there was a very real chance that he'd blow himself up with the energy sourcing ritual. He merely wanted to keep his godfather as far away from the blast zone as possible.

It was easy to follow his and Sirius's path back to the wards through the matted down grass. When he arrived at the place where he had fallen, he took fifteen measured steps to the left along the wards, before taking five measured steps back. In the other world, the distance between the rune stones had been so great in some cases that there had been long stretches along the ward boundaries where the magic of the wards barely penetrated the earth at all. It wouldn't be so with the set of wards that he now faced. The overall configuration was weak – if he were out to dismantle them, that is (which he had no clue about doing, as they drew a good bit of their power from trapped souls, instead of free magic, and were defined by rune stones). However, the rune stones were much closer together, meaning that the wards penetrated the earth several feet, even at the mid-points between the outlying rune stones. From what he had felt, when he had been connected to the wards, he needed to clear nine feet plus several additional feet for a passageway.

Harry bent down and withdrew a pocket knife from his jacket pocket. He had plans to obtain a proper dagger soon. For now, though, the old pocket knife would have to do. As he began to cut an arced line into the earth, he mused at just what sort of education war could provide a person. He hadn't even finished his sixth year at Hogwarts or taken a single course of Ancient Runes in the other world, yet he had learned temporary and semi-permanent warding, construction arrays, and multiple rituals and healing spells involving runes. His knowledge and abilities in the Mind Arts were uncontested by all but a handful of men. He had advanced far beyond NEWT level in nearly all his Hogwarts courses, especially Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Transfigurations. He had also picked up other, more questionable fields of magic along the way, along with general survival skills, life skills, and multiple languages. He could say with complete honesty that he had learned more over the course of the war than he had at Hogwarts, or would have in such a short time had the war never happened.

With the construction array finished, Harry cleaned the knife on his jeans, before proceeding to cut open his left palm. He pressed his bleed hand to the center of the array, his life energy helping to cement his connection to the magic being preformed, as his will and a whispered word activated the array. Since he was using passive magic, the power that he could force into the array was only as limited as his own ability to control the magic; unlike active magic, which also factored in the limits of the focuser being use. Yet the end result, he knew, would be far less elegant and would take far longer than if he were using a wand. Passive magic was active magic's crude predecessor, and its predecessor for a reason.

Harry could feel the earth shift beneath his hand, could feel the free magic that he was pulling from his surroundings moving through him, changing, and flowing into the earth where the array further defined it. This time, he took things slower, much slower than he had when he had separated himself from the Kill Wards. He wasn't just moving magic through his body; he was altering it, using it – a very different and difficult task, when compared to the former.

Upon the earth falling away from beneath Harry's palm, a well was exposed. It wasn't a true well. There was no water and it wasn't all that deep, 15 feet or roughly so. Its mouth was three feet in diameter and its walls were smooth clay hardened into stone. He pressed his bleeding palm to the edge of well nearest him and focused again on the current of magic still flowing through him, changing, and moving out of him and into his construction. With the sound of stone grinding on stone, ladder rungs protruded from the wall.

Harry climbed down the ladder without a second thought. He couldn't count how many similar constructs he had climbed down throughout his life, but it was almost second nature for his hands and feet to find the rungs. His feet hit the base of the well with the distinct _snick_ of boots landing on stone. He focused his eyes, allowing his night vision to take fully now that he was swathed in shadows at the base of the well without the light of the moon to see by, and turned to face the curved wall of the well opposite the ladder. His pocket knife wouldn't have much effect on stone, but his blood would work all the same for drawing the rune array that would assist him in constructing a passageway that would allow him to bypass the Kill Wards wholly unharmed.

The time it took for Harry to finish his tunnel system amounted to nearly an hour. A fact that he was not pleased with, but knew that rushing the process would have pushed his limits and put him at risk of losing control.

Harry emerged from a secondary well that he had constructed mere feet inside the boundary of wards with caution. He had thought that the night was silent before, but the silence that he'd previously experience was nothing to the utter soundlessness filling his ears. As he let out the breath that he hadn't known that he'd been holding, it sounds harsh despite its soft whisper from his lungs.

"Right then," Harry said, his eyes gazing into the forested area before him. It was downright eerie how still the trees were, how ridge ever blade of grass was, and how cold the air was on his skin in comparison to the summer night outside of the wards. Frost was already forming on the underbrush in preparation for dawn.

Harry took a few more steadying breaths and stepped forward. With that step, the earth crunched beneath his weight deafeningly. Yet, nothing stirred around him. He was the only living creature within the wards, he was sure. To remain so, there were but a few simple rules that he had to follow: do not attempt apparation, do not activate a portkey, and do not touch the edge of the wards (unknowingly or unprepared). These rules, of course, would not apply to any and all marked Death Eaters or to the Dark Lord, himself. The Death Eaters' Dark Marks provided them a free, all access pass so to speak, while the wards were attuned to Voldemort's innate magic.

Harry shook his head of the memories attempting to come forward, not wanting to think about all the lives lost with the initial activation of the Kill Wards over Britain and the many lives lost afterwards, as they made various attempts to circumvent the wards. The shatter remains of the Order of the Phoenix and the few stragglers that had joined them had been like sitting duck with clipped wings for the first five months, before desperation called forth a plan that had been regarded as utter madness, until it had been proven viable. After the freedom of the last week and the freedom that he remembered always having as his teenage self, Harry felt distinctly uneasy now within the confines of the Kill Wards that he had grown so accustom to in the other world.

With his senses on high alert, Harry forced himself onward. His steps, his every breath, even the steady rhythm of his heartbeat – every noise that he made was distinguishable and loud, as he moved through the underbrush. Upon reaching the pebbled shore of the oblong lake, after several minutes of hiking, he was faced with 300 yards and thousands of gallons of still water between him and his objective. Yet, even at this distance, he could tell that something wasn't quite right. He had noticed that the island wasn't flat and appeared to be a rock formation back outside the wards on his and Sirius's initial approach. Closer now, he saw that rock formation wasn't exactly the correct term to apply to the island. Ritual site was the more accurate term to be applied.

For a moment, Harry stared across the lake at the jutting rock construct with its marble white, yet visibly blood stained sacrificial slab at its center. He had never been on site, when any of the other keystones had been destroyed. Usually, he had moved on to ridding another nation of the Dark Regime's reign, by the time his ward experts took on the task of deconstructing the Kill Wards over the nations that they had already reclaimed. With Britain's Kill Wards, though, the Dark Regime had been still active, when his warders had moved in. The warders had been working on the wards for over a month, by the time that he had died. And despite having known about this particular site from nearly the beginning of their work (it was, if fact, the only site that they had ever reported to him), they had made zero progress in deconstructing the wards – or had not reported making any progress to him, at the very least. Not to mention, they never mentioned a ritual site married to a keystone site before. He got the feeling that he now knew what had been causing the delay.

Trepidation settled within Harry's gut, as he remained unmoving at the water's edge. He had two options. One was to continue on with his mission and make his way onto the island and see just what exactly was what. The other was to concede and give up the night as a bad job. He could secure Bill's help at the Quidditch World Cup and return with the man, who was much more educated about wards than himself, seeing as Bill had practically taught him all that he knew about temporary and semi-permanent wards.

Harry sighed. There was really only one option. He knew next to nothing about permanent wards, other than that most were defined by runes stones and depended very little on their caster for their strength and that he could tunnel under them, if he was determined enough and had the time to do so. To put it outright: he needed Bill. He needed to get the red head on board, before he attempted anything more with the wards. There was no getting around it.

"Fuck!" Harry cursed, his voice echoing across the lake with volume that he was sure that he hadn't actually used. With resignation, he turned away from the water's edge. It looked like he'd be keeping his promise to Sirius.


	17. Baron of the Peak

**Disclaimer:** _Okay, so I thought that I better put a disclaimer on this chapter so that I don't get bombarded with angry comments. Essentially, remember as you read this chapter that this is a work of fiction that in no way claims historical accuracy. Yes, I've done a bit of historical research, as well as spent over thirty hours on genealogical research trying to find as much information, as many useful connections, and as much continuity as possible. So, there is a touch of realism to the story, but it's still a tale of fiction that has been written. Don't take it seriously. This is a bit of history twisted to suit my needs for the story, capisce?_

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**Chapter 17 ****–** Baron of the Peak

Harry groaned and his hand instinctually went to his head. That movement, however, reminded him why he had a headache, as his arm and shoulder muscles flared with a dull ache that resonated throughout his body. Last night had not gone at all like he had wanted or expected that it would.

"Mum says you have to get up."

"Ten more minutes," Harry murmured in a half-asleep slur and turned his face into his pillow in search of the dark, unawareness of his body's aches and of the world around him that he had been enjoying. He felt like he could sleep for another ten hours, perhaps another ten years. Not that he had that sort of time to waste, of course.

"You've practically slept the morning away already, Harry. If you don't get up, Mum says she's going to assume there's something wrong and floo Mayra to come over to have a look at you."

_Damn,_ Harry thought, already mourning the comfort of his bed, despite not having moved an inch to get out of it yet. He blamed his teenage self for such soft sentiments, as his adult self had usually hit the ground running no matter what time he had been awoken or how little sleep he had gotten or what injuries he had been suffering from. Or perhaps it was his out of shape, teenage body that was to blame. He really needed to train this body up to endure all the crap that he was going to put it through – last night was evidence of as much. While his mind could make up for some of its weakness, he'd prefer not to run himself into the ground on every mission or waste energy and concentration on things that he need not waste energy and concentration on.

"So…I'll tell Mum you're not feeling well then."

"I'm up," Harry said, his head snapping up from his pillow with a reluctant jerk. He squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight pouring through his bedroom window and focused on his sister. Bethany was standing a few feet away from his bed with her arms crossed over her chest, looking annoyed. "What time is it exactly?"

"A quarter past ten," she said plainly, telling Harry without using actual words to say so that it wasn't him that she was annoyed with, as she wasn't snapping at him, like she would have if she was angry with him. He was merely an inconvenience for her, while someone else was the true focus of her ire.

_Ah,_ Harry thought, after taking a moment to consider the time and his sister's presence in his room. _She probably wanted to stay longer at Demelza's house, but Mum or Dad forced her home. _

"Dad wants to see you in his study, once you've ate something," Bethany informed and turned to leave Harry's room, her long hair sweeping through the air after her.

Harry let her go. He had more pressing matters to deal with than his sister's latest row with their parents. First and most immediate was the physical toll on his body from his late night/early morning activities. Second and somewhat less immediate was the fact that his father was home, as in home with enough time for them to talk. The man wouldn't have told Bethany to tell him to come to his study, if that wasn't the case. Third and of high priority, yet a long term problem in its full execution, was the matter of engineering a war without appearing to be engineering a war, but still drawing enough attention to himself to keep attention away from other parties that would do well to drop from Voldemort's notice all together. Not to mention, somewhere in all his plotting, he had to figure out how to fuck over the goblins without causing an inter-species incident. Well, he didn't _really_ have to per say – call him vindictive, he wouldn't deny it – but the way he saw things: it was better to screw them, before they screwed him (and possibly the rest of Europe).

"Self-serving, pretentious bastards," Harry cursed the goblin race, as he willed his aches away and got out of bed.

A half hour later saw Harry entering his father's study. It wasn't a large room, simply the den off of the sitting room, but it suited his father and had suited many Potter patriarchs before his father just fine. Cluttered bookshelves and old, sturdy and overflowing cabinets lined the walls with a shutter window looking out at the shaded back garden positioned squarely behind his father's desk. His father, who was dressed in casual, navy robes and whose black hair was as messy as ever, was sitting in his antique, dark leather armchair behind the vast, colonial desk. As was accustom, the man's work was spread cross the work surface. Books had been pull from their oak shelves, scrolls of notes and recordings of history written by Potters of the past had been removed from still open and somewhat disorganized cabinets and lay open for perusal, a partially filled glass of Firewhiskey rested just within reach of his father's right hand, which was clasped around a quill and jotting down notes on a fresh, yet already ink riddled scroll of parchment – the sight was familiar, yet foreign. The way his father looked up at him, when he entered made it so.

The warmth that Harry usually associated with his father was nowhere to be found. This meeting was business. He could see it in his father's resolved eyes, just as he could see it in the rigidity of the man's posture and the way the man's hand stilled over the parchment, instead of finishing out the sentence that it had been painting.

Harry felt caution stir within him, as he stepped into the room fully and shut his father's study door behind him. The moment that he did, he felt the privacy wards that surround his father's study activate.

"A bit early for that, isn't it?" Harry asked from his place by the door, nodding his head at the Firewhiskey. Its potent smell was perceptible in his every breath, along with the scent of slowly decaying parchment and old books and the fumes of the oil lamps burning dully within the room. One lamp made of brass rested on the cabinet nearest to the door and another of brass and silver sat at the left corner of his father's desk. Between the oil lamps and the daylight stream through the lone window, the room was well lit with only the slightest of shadows stretching across the floor boards and plain white walls.

James returned his quill to the inkwell that rested open near the top of the parchment that he was working on and swept his hand over to pick up the glass of Firewhiskey. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a swallow of the beverage in answer to Harry's question. "I assume you drink," he said, after setting the glass back on his desk. His eyes regarded Harry, as if he didn't know him at all, as if Harry were a stranger, an unknown entity that he was attempting to get the measure of.

"Porteur drank on occasion," Harry conceded, as he regard his father in return and attempted get his own measure of the situation and his father's line of thinking. Whatever they were to each at the current moment, they weren't exactly father and son – not in the way that the accustom relation between them had always been. That much was clear. His father wasn't looking at him as if he were his underage son, but rather as if he were his equal.

Harry resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow in askance of his father's actions, as the man nodded and then conjured a second glass tumbler and poured a measure of Firewhiskey into it from the decanter of the amber liquid that Harry hadn't noticed hiding behind a sizable stack of books. The man set the glass across from him at the edge of his desk and made a welcoming motion for Harry to sit and have a drink with him.

"Am I to take it that this is one of those conversations that require alcohol?" Harry asked, as he crossed the wood floorboards in a lazy stride and picked up the tumbler. He sniffed its contents, taking in its distinct, nostril burning scent that was unmistaken as Firewhiskey and searching for subtle hints of anything that shouldn't be in the whiskey. He found none – not that he had actually expected to find any. "Ogden's finest."

"1965," James said and leaned back in his chair, feign calm with a touch of indifference that he couldn't quite pull off.

Harry did raise an eyebrow at that. "I've been told that was a good year."

"One of the best," James confirmed, his eyes watching Harry carefully.

Harry met the man's gaze. _What are you playing at, Dad? Is this a preemptive peace offering? A test?_ Whatever his father's motivations, he wasn't about to turn down Ogden's, though he would use the presented opportunity to make a point clear between them that he wanted absolutely no mistake about, not ever. "I don't accept food or drink from an adversary," he said, stating it as the matter of fact that it was.

"I'd hope not." James graced Harry with an easy grin that told of his understanding.

With pointedly deliberate movements, Harry brought the glass tumbler to his lips. The amber liquid burned across his tongue and all the way down his throat to the pit of his stomach. Warmth burst through him, as the substance lit his insides alight with its fire. Though his body wasn't familiar with the strange sensation, his mind was. He drew the tumbler smoothly away from his lips without a cough, his eyes never leaving his father's penetrating stare.

"Better than the batch of 1907," Harry said, his voice slightly horse from the burn of the alcohol wreaking havoc on his virgin throat.

"I've never had any 1907," James said, still watching Harry carefully. "I'll take your word for it."

Harry hummed, took another sip of the whiskey, and sat down on the puffy, maroon armchair set before his father's desk. _Not a test, but something else_. "So, are we celebrating or are we getting pissed so that this conversation is just a little bit more bearable?"

"The latter, though I wouldn't say pissed." James took up his own Firewhiskey and brought the glass to his lips for a quick drink. "If things go as I expect, we'll be meeting with Mr. Earnshaw this afternoon."

Harry tensed, his grip tightening around the tumbler in his hand. "Our solicitor?"

James nodded stiffly, his lips pursed and eyes serious. "We've much to discuss, Harry," he said gravely. "I'm not sure of the extent of your knowledge on the matter of our heritage, but you looked genuinely shocked in Ollivander's shop, so I must assume that you never learned the truth of our ancestry in your other world."

"The only facts that I know about the Potter ancestry are the ones _you_ taught me," Harry interrupted, before his father could even ask of his knowledge. "In the other world, I didn't even know my first name was Harold. I always thought that my full given name was Harry, as did everyone else."

"Please tell me that you were at least aware of the repercussions of exposing yourself as a parselmouth," James said with a slightly pleading note, while looking like had just been force fed one of Dumbledore's famous Sherbet Lemons.

"Not…" Harry began, only for realization to hit. He'd never told his father that he was a parselmouth, nor had he given any indication that he was one over the last few weeks. He narrowed his eyes at his father, suspicion increasing the uneasy that he felt since entering his father's study. "How'd you know I'm a parselmouth?"

"Because every Peverell born of William Peverell the Elder and Adeline, daughter of Salazar Slytherin and Deirdre, last daughter of le Fay, has been a parselmouth," James said calmly and took another sip of his whiskey. "If you've truly broken through Ignotus's Seal, like Ollivander claims, you'd be no different. And you aren't, as it seems."

Harry sat ridge in his chair, openly staring at his father, his mind incapable of coherent thought, as it attempted to process the shit his father had just dumped on him with two sentences in the space of forty-three seconds. His father's pointed look at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand drew his attention to the amber liquid. _Yes, this conversation most definitely requires alcohol,_ he thought in agreement, as he brought it to his lips. He took a longer drink, relishing in the burn, than he had prior, before returning his attention to his father.

"When you say William Peverell the Elder, I assume that means there was a William Peverell the Younger, and if that's the case, I assume you're talking about the bastard son of William the Conqueror and Ingelrica, who married Ranulph Perf, a Welshman who took on the Norman name Peverell and gave the name to the son, in order to make the child legitimate," Harry said, finding it to difficult to suspend his disbelief. "And when you say Deirdre, last daughter of le Fay, I assume you're talking about the le Fay bloodline, as in Morgan le Fay."

"You assume right on both accounts," James confirmed. "Though, I'm surprised that you jumped straight to William the Conqueror without mentioning the Brothers or Eustace or Henry Peverell, if you know of the Peverells and their story."

"I don't of them, not really," Harry said uncaringly. The alcohol pumping through him was truly beginning to take effect, soothing him and making the entire matter of his heritage a little less important than it actually was. "I only really know of William the Conqueror, William Peverell the Elder, and William Peverell the Younger, because I've been compared to William the Conqueror more than a few time in the other world, and his bastard son and traitorous grandson were always brought up, as part of his legend."

James raised an eyebrow. "He wasn't well known for his mercy."

"Neither was I," Harry said truthfully, as he averted his gaze away from his father's ever persistent and judgmental stare to study the ancient looking globe resting atop a particularly fat and overflowing cabinet to his left. The globe's adorned gold stand was pristine, yet the parchment wrapping the quaffle sized sphere was noticeably discolored, as were the inks faded. He knew, without needing to move closer to examine the globe in detail, that the boundaries defining the many countries and even some of the names of the countries wouldn't match up to the maps used by the Muggles of the 19th century, let alone the maps used by the Muggles of today. The portrait that hung behind the globe, which usually contained Edmund Potter, his great-great-great-grandfather, who originally owned the globe, was suspiciously empty, just as the other five portraits in the room were as well. _A truly private conversation._

"From what I understand, after William the Younger's condemnation as a traitor, the Honour of Peverell was claimed by the Crown," Harry said, looking back to his father. Even if they were descendants of the Peverells in some way, the family's nobility and prestige had been long gone. It shouldn't affect him now, yet somehow it did, if his encounter with Ollivander was anything to go by.

"All but a portion, which went to William the Younger's daughter and accepted heir, Margaret," James said, sounding displeased by the fact.

"You say accepted as if there was another heir who should have been more eligible," Harry noted with interest.

James gave a weary sigh and slumped in his chair. "There was. Henry Peverell was William the Younger's first born from his first marriage and his heir by all rights, but Henry II refused to recognize Henry Peverell's claim to any portion of the Honour of Peverell and attempted to hunt down Henry the same way that he had taken to hunting down William the Younger."

"The father's crime becomes the son's crime as well," Harry said scathingly. He'd had some experience with that particular sentiment.

"That's just it." James frowned, took a sip of his whiskey, and shook his head despairingly. "The father's crime was the son's crime. While Margaret and her sister, Helen, had been born of a separate mother from Henry and neither daughter had a trace of magic within them, Henry shared his father and grandparent's gift."

"Magic," Harry said flatly, understanding washing through him. "Henry II was after them because of their magic?"

"By all accounts, William the Elder was a muggle-born. He attended Hogwarts, where it is written that he first met his future wife, Adeline. He left Hogwarts with a full education at the age of 14 and went on to Normandy to become a knight in service to his father. After the Battle of Hastings and establishing his place amongst his father's court, he and Adeline married. Their two children, William the Younger and Adelise, were just as magically gifted as their mother and father. While Adelise went on to marry a wizard, William the Younger married Oddona verch Hugh d'Avranches, and upon Oddona's death during the stillbirth of their second son, Richard, he married Avicia of Lancaster. It is suspect, however, that William the Younger's two daughters with Avicia of Lancaster were not actually his and that he had only one true child, Henry," James said, recounting the history, as if he knew it as well as his own life story. "King Henry I had always been quite amiable with the Peverell line, though many of William the Conqueror's legitimate children were not pleased with the Peverells' status and, most especially, with the fact that William the Elder and his descendants were seen as legitimate and practically equal to them."

"Which is part of the reason why William Peverell the Younger championed King Stephen, instead of Empress Matilda and Henry II," Harry said knowingly. He'd heard this bit before, as William the Younger's support of Stephen was supposedly the true reason that Henry II stripped William Peverell the Younger of the Honour of Peverell and proclaimed him a traitor of England. Harry could hardly blame his ancestor for backing Stephen, when a good majority of the man's aunts and uncles and his many cousins would have preferred to see him and his family killed than to allow his family to retain the Honour of Peverell and the man had supposedly found an ally in Stephen. He, Harry, would have done the same.

"Yes," James agreed. "Nonetheless, it wasn't long after Henry II assumed the thrown that the King discovered that William Peverell the Elder had had magic and that William Peverell the Younger and Henry Peverell both had magic as well. William the Younger's support of King Stephen and his supposed hand in the attempt on the Earl of Chester's life only served as further crimes against him, when his magic was enough of a crime for Henry II to proclaim him a traitor." He paused to take a swallow of his whiskey, which was nearly empty with only a thin coating reaming in the bottom of the glass.

Harry mirrored his father, finding that the old tales of witch burnings and muggle violence against magicals were a bit more close to home, when it was his own ancestors that he was hearing about suffering the cruelty and prejudice.

"William the Younger was killed – slaughtered actually – but Henry managed to get away and to gain sanctity among his fellow witches and wizards," James continued, his lips pulling down at their corners once more. "Though Henry II thought that he had seized the entirety of the Honour of Peverell, he had been wrong. Contingences had been in place for years. A castle constructed privately in the Forest of Derby and warded with the best wards that William the Elder could provide had remained secretly in Henry's possession, as did a small fortune that had been hidden away within the castle's vaults. Henry lived quite comfortably and eventually married the witch Matilda, daughter of Drake de Burke, and had two children Eustace and Beatrice. Beatrice died of Dragon Pox as a little girl, but Eustace married and had three sons of his own, known as the Brothers. Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell were without a doubt the brightest and most dangerous wizards of their age."

"None of that explains why Ollivander referred to me as 'Young Lord' last week," Harry said, taking another drink of his whiskey. His glass wasn't far from being empty. A few more swallows would easily polish the drink off. "The Peverell Coat of Arms and all that nobility shit with the Honour of Peverell; it no longer applies."

"There's the rub," James said, looking troubled. His earlier frown had become a pronounced scowl with his eyes narrowed with displeasure behind his glasses. "Even back then our kind had begun to consider ourselves separate from the Muggles. We had our Wizards' Council. We had our own sport, our own drinks and food, and our own songs and dances. Every day we were pulling further away from the society that persecuted us more and more and to a great extreme. Henry II may have stripped William the Younger and Henry of their Muggle peerage, but among our kind, Henry's status as Baron of the Peak remained. The seat that his father had retained on the Wizards' Council and the lands his father had been charged to govern, as a wizard overseeing his fellow wizards, had become his with his father's death. Very few on the Wizards' Council cared about William Peverell the Younger's supposed crimes, as most regarded Henry II's declaration of William the Younger as a traitor of England, as an attack on William the Younger for being a wizard."

Harry scrubbed a weary hand through his still sleep ruffled hair, as he digested the information being imparted to him. He'd really been hoping to escape all the 'my lord' crap and the fucking nervous, non-stop bowing in this world. His chances of doing so were looking less and less likely. Morrigan save him from idiots.

"Do you want to take a break?" James asked, watching his son's form sag in the armchair across from him.

Harry shook his head. "Just tell me how all of this is relevant to me. You said something earlier about Ignotus's Seal."

"As I know that you know _The Tale of the Three Brothers_, I won't bother rehashing it, but basically Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus were the brothers that inspired the tale," James said in a rushed breath. "If they ever worked together to conjure a bridge across a treacherous river, I don't know. I do know that the supposed gifts that they received from Death were actually items that they made themselves. Antioch crafted the Elder Wand, Cadmus crafted the Resurrection Stone, and Ignotus crafted the Cloak of Invisibility."

"Your cloak," Harry concluded knowingly. He had noticed in the other world that the invisibility cloak that he had inherited from his father wasn't like any other of its kind. It wasn't woven from demiguise hair, yet he had never had to apply a single charm to its silk like material to maintain its power. Not that it had been charmed invisible in the first place. The cloak was practically magic itself. He had no clue as to how Ignotus had done it, but his ancestor had somehow given a physical, movable form to an enchantment. Whether the cloak had been an actual cloak to start with or was simply the manifestation of his ancestor's spell work, he couldn't say one way or the other.

"As _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ claims, it has been passed down from father to son," James confirmed with a nod. "Where the Elder Wand and Resurrection Stone have ended up, however, is a mystery. Antioch was killed – not in an inn and not by a knife to the throat – but he was most definitely killed for the Elder Wand. Cadmus did commit suicide, but it wasn't the echo of his betrothed lover that drove him to his grave. It was his wife who died during child birth that he recalled and eventually killed himself for. Supposedly, their daughter took possession of the Resurrection Stone. The daughter's whereabouts, after Cadmus's death, are unrecorded and are as much a mystery as who killed Antioch for the Elder Wand and where both the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone have ended up."

"And the part about Death hunting Ignotus?" Harry said and took a swallow of his Firewhiskey. The burn of the alcohol down his throat and the hum of it within his veins was the only thing keeping him seated. If he had been sober, he'd have been up and pacing by now, as he attempted to analyze every new piece of information – starting with the fact that he wasn't a parselmouth do to him playing host to one of Voldemort's horcruxes for roughly nineteen years of his life in the other world, which had never quite sat right with him to begin with.

"Death did hunt Ignotus, just not in the literal sense of the actual figure of Death searching for him across the land," James said, back to scowling. "The Peverell Brothers had been well known for their wealth and noble status and widely known for their heritage – regarded as they were as sons of the bastard bloodline of William the Conqueror and indisputably the last descendants to carry the blood of Slytherin and le Fay. In roughly two centuries, the Peverell bloodline had gone from nonexistence to being at the height of power and knowledge among wizarding kind, and needless to say, there had been certain families who had opposed the bloodline's quick rise and had felt threatened by the Peverells' pedigree and their ever growing knowledge and understanding of magic, particularly the direction their studies had taken into the even then forbidden depths of the Dark Arts, as rumors of Cadmus's fascination with necromancy and his obsession with bring his deceased wife back to life had spread.

"It is written that the Resurrection Stone had been crafted by Cadmus long before Antioch had ever crafted the Elder Wand, and the same has been recorded in accordance to Ignotus crafting the Cloak of Invisibility. By all accounts, Antioch had crafted the wand as a weapon to be used against those who had threatened the family in response to Cadmus's work. After Cadmus had been driven to suicide by his own creation and Antioch had been murdered for the Elder Wand, Ignotus had found himself and his young son to be all that remained of the Peverell bloodline, as Antioch had never had children and Cadmus's daughter had disappeared with her father's creation.

"Ignotus took his wife and son into hiding, far away from everyone and everything that they had ever known, about two years after Antioch had been murdered. The family had been driven from muggle society, by threat of death, barely a century earlier, yet had no longer been able to live safely within wizarding society either. Many witches and wizards of the time had assumed that Ignotus had known his brothers' secrets and several had sought him out and had demanded that he craft them their own Resurrection Stone or a wand just a powerful as the fabled Elder Wand," James said, the tightening of his eyes and the pronounced pull of his lips in a thin downturn making him appear more grim than Harry ever remembered seeing him. "The sort that chase those kinds of artifacts are dangerous themselves by nature, and Ignotus had had his life and his wife and son's lives put in jeopardy more than once for having refused to emulate his brothers' work. There had been other attacks on him and his family, as well, by witches and wizards who had believed Ignotus to be just as dangerous and deranged as his brothers and had wished him dead on principle. Then there were those who had been waiting for an excuse to end the Peverell bloodline and had been more than eager to take advantage of the change in attitude towards the family."

"Fuck," Harry said in a low exhale. Why his father had looked ready to curse, if not kill Ollivander for even bring up their ancestry was becoming more and more clear to him by the minute. The Peverells may have lived centuries ago, but that didn't change the fact that they were their ancestors – close enough in blood for the Potters to have ended up with the Cloak of Invisibility. There was no telling how modern society would react to such a revelation.

James sighed and bowed his head with his son's whispered curse. For a long moment, silence penetrated the study, hanging tense in air between father and son.

"Ignotus crafted the cloak, once he and his family had gone into hiding. It was designed to be a safety measure, in case if their location was ever discovered," James said, breaking the silence, and when he looked back up at Harry, his gaze was morose, as well as resigned. "In theory, his wife and son would have escaped beneath the cloak, while he attempted to buy them enough time to get away. Ignotus knew, however, that neither the cloak nor hiding out in self-imposed exile would be an indefinite solution to his family's continued survival. His son would grow and would eventually desire to leave home and start a family of his own. Yet, like any other son of Peverell, his son possessed a distinguishable aptitude for the Mind Arts, was a parselmouth, and had already shown signs of being able to control magic in ways that the average wizard could not. These traits marked his son and would mark all his future descendants, just as they marked him and his ancestors. Though he referred to it as 'a most vile and unthinkable act', Ignotus knew that there was only one true solution that would have any sort of permanence. The traits that defined the Peverells for who they were had to be sealed away within the family's magic – some traits more fully than others. It took him many years, but when his son turned 17, he was able to send the boy out into the world, not as Walter Peverell, but as Richard Potter."

For a measured moment, Harry stared blankly at his father. He swallowed the last of his whiskey, as he resolved himself to the significance of what his father had just told him. "What happened to the Peverells' seat on the Wizards' Council? Their lands and gold?"

"Their seat on the Wizards' Council was absorbed by the Council with an elected member filling the seat," James said matter-of-factly, as if he was attempting to distance himself from this bit of history. "Much like the ill fate of the Honour of Peverell, those who tried to claim the seat as their own found themselves suffering all kinds of difficulties – some even grew ill, while others died from one obscure disease or another or in an inexplicable accident. An attempt at splitting up the land and the legislative responsibilities governed by the Peverells' seat was made, but only resulted in all parties involved suffering equal misfortune. With the transition of the Wizards' Council into the Wizengamot, there was hope that the curse would break, but it did not. As it stands, management of the Peverells' seat is attached to the responsibilities of the Chief Warlock."

Harry let out a soft chuckle. He couldn't help it. Sure, he didn't find Voldemort's curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post very funny, but that was Voldemort being a petty bastard. The Peverells' curse on their own seat on the Wizards' Council (now Wizengamot) was revenge well earned and beautifully executed.

"Technically, Harry," James said sternly and pinned his son with a disapproving look, "the seat remains in the Peverells' possession, waiting for a true heir of Peverell blood and magic to emerge from the Potter bloodline and claim his birthright. I imagine that Ignotus didn't want to lose everything, like his grandfather Henry nearly had to Henry II and had always intended for the Peverell bloodline to continue publicly, once it was safe for his descendant to claim their heritage. Whether now is the time to make that claim or not, I don't know. But you've broken Ignotus's Seal, son, and according to all records: once it's broken, there is no fixing it or reapplying it. Not for you, at least."

Looking at his father, Harry saw that they had finally arrived at the reason for their conversation thus far. His father was once more appraising him with indifferent eyes, as if the man didn't know him at all. Only this time, Harry understood his father's motivations. His father was taking him in, the man's probing eyes raking over his raw state, and trying to find the son of nobility and merciless warrior that supposedly ran in his blood and was reaffirmed within his magic, unbound by Ignotus's Seal as his magic was.

Harry didn't know about the son of nobility part, but he had the merciless warrior routine down pat. Now that he knew the truth, the comparison some of his men had made in the other world between him and William the Conqueror and the Conqueror's bastard son and traitorous grandson, he realized, had probably been intentional. They had always looked to him, waiting for him to confirm or deny the likeness – always respectful, yet cautious. Even Ron had approached him, inquiring in his not-so-subtle, subtle way as to what he thought about the comparison, while having waited for his answer with baited breath. He hadn't understood then, but he did now. They had wanted to know, if he was a Peverell descendant, without having to ask him outright.

_Does the name really hold the same power today that it held all those centuries ago?_ Harry wondered, meeting his father's gaze with silent askance.

"I'm not going to tell you how to live your life, Harry," James said, his entire visage serious, as well as sincere. "I've thought long and hard on this. No matter what I try to tell myself, this is your decision. I've done my best to impart upon you the severity of the choice you now face, but whatever you decide – whether you choose to embrace our true heritage or choose to maintain the status quo as a Potter, hiding the abilities that define you as a son of Peverell – know that I will support you no matter what."

Harry leaned forward and deposited his empty whiskey tumbler on his father's cluttered desk. Instead of resting back in the plush armchair, as he had been, he hunched forward with his elbows digging into his knees and his eyes fixed pensively on the wood floorboards beneath his feet, his gaze sliding past his clasped hands. The choice wasn't hard. If he took his personal feelings out of the matter and ignored the possible repercussions for him and his family, there was only one conceivable option. Like a starved man in a desert with nothing edible around for miles being offered a way to get around Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, he couldn't snub what was being offered to him. To take on the Peverell heritage publicly would be the perfect and easiest way to draw attention to himself, gain political sway that he wouldn't have had otherwise, and give him more than an excuse for the magic that he used. As a Peverell, no one would expect him to behave as a Potter and it would be easier for him to shake the kid image, when circumstances demanded that he be seen as an adult or a genuine adversary. Sure, he could continue to trudge through the blazing desert aching with starvation, but why? To what end? For his family's sake? Maybe, but the shit he was dealing with was much bigger than just him and his family. He was trying to avert mass casualty. He needed every advantage that he could get. It was as simple as that.

"Dad," Harry said, swallowing hard as he looked back up at his father. There was no surprise on his father's face, just expectation and acceptance.

"If you're ready to go in the next fifteen minutes, we'll have time to grab lunch at Fortescue's, before our appointment with Mr. Earnshaw," James said, forcing a reassuring smile on his face. "He's already drawn up all the necessary paperwork for your emancipation from the House of Potter and claim of lordship as Baron of the Peak, as well as the paperwork to change your surname to Peverell in the eyes of the Ministry and the Wizengamot."

Harry nodded and pushed himself to stand. "Does Mum know?"

"Yes." James's gaze turned concerned, as he looked up at Harry. He hesitated a moment, pursing his lips, before adding, "She tells me you're not adjusting well."

"Normalcy doesn't suit me." Harry shrugged carelessly and turned away from his father's all too perceptive gaze to head for the door.

"Right, because nearly getting yourself kill by some form of death wards is more up your alley."

A whine of the floorboards sounded into the silence of the room, as Harry's steps faltered. "You've talked to Sirius."

"A conversation for another time." There was plain dismissal in James's voice.

Harry finished crossing the last few steps to the sturdy, oak door and exited his father's study, taking the verbal slap on the wrist for the warning that it was. He sincerely doubted that he and his father would talk about his escapades last night, but his father's message was clear. The man didn't like him sneaking around behind his back, and if it happened again and his father found out about it, they would have words.


	18. Politics at Play

**Chapter 18**** –** Politics at Play

Harry wasn't sure where his week went. After his and his father's initial meeting with Mr. Dwight Earnshaw, the remainder of the weekend had been entirely uneventful and had passed in its entirety before he knew it. Monday had seen his father back to work, Bethany off to the Frobishers house for the week, and him being dragged away from his breakfast by his mother and Mayra to go shopping for new attire that would befit his heritage and status. From Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to Twilfitt and Tattings and Gladrags Wizardwear, he had been herded and made to endure custom fitting and design session after custom fitting and design session. Needless to say, the day had been tedious and without progress, outside of his wardrobe having been updated with adequate apparel that possessed class as well as the practicality that he had demanded and had steadfast refused to compromise on even for the sake of the garment's overall appeal.

Tuesday, he had been left to his own devices. A silent apology from his mother for the day before, he suspected. He had spent a majority of the day walking the woods behind his family's cottage with the intent of familiarizing himself with the layout and marking himself a jogging path, as well as finding a few sturdy trees that would be good for climbing and had the right limb structure for strength training exercises. If he was going to get his body into shape, he needed to be able to push himself to his limits without worrying about getting lost in the woods or climbing up a faulty tree. Markers that had been etched into the bark of a tree every dozen or so yards had been a method that he had always found to be helpful in tracking his position and whose territory it had been that he had been traveling through in the other world. A different sort of mark on the trees that he knew to be structurally sound and conducive to his strength training needs also simplified matters.

Wednesday, he had forced himself out of bed the moment that the sky had lightened and had started his new training regimen. His mother had given him a strange look, when he had returned from the woods flushed, covered in mud, and soaked to the bone with rain and sweat, but had said nothing, as he had passed her on the stairs on his way to the bath for a soak. He had spent the day with his mother in the cellar, which had been converted into a potions lab of sorts a few centuries back. As he had helped her with the urgent, three cauldron batch of pepper up potion that Tugwood's Apothecary of Hogsmeade had ordered, she had taken the opportunity to quiz him on the third year material that he was to be tested on, before the end of the summer and being allowed to start his fourth year at Hogwarts. Later that evening, after his father had gotten Kingsley Shacklebolt to take the second half of his double shift, Mr. Earnshaw had met with him and his father to authenticate the documents proving his claim to the Peverell heritage, as well as have him and his father sign the finalized forms that granted him his emancipation from the House of Potter and officially changed his surname to Peverell.

Thursday, he had woken early and again left the house a little after dawn. When he had returned from the woods, his mother had greeted him at the back door with a glass of water in hand and a smile on her face. As his mother didn't have another urgent order that she needed assistance with, he had spent much of the drizzly day studying newspapers that his father had saved over the years, looking for any useful information that would tell him where he might find one of Voldemort's currently unaccounted for horcruxes or whether Voldemort's activity was greater or less in this world than it had been in the other world around the same time. He had found nothing definite in what he had read so far, but the stack of newspapers was quite large and he had only gotten a quarter the way through them, before his mother had urged him to bed.

As Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror mounted upon the back of his wardrobe door, adjusting the blood red cravat knotted around his neck, he couldn't help but feel that time had deceived him. Where a week ago, down to the very minute, he had been calmly and rationally planning his mission to recover what he had thought was one of the rune stones that would power the Kill Wards over Britain and use it to locate the Kill Wards' keystone, he was now dressed in an expensive set of coal robes and was growing ever more frustrated with the temperamental cravat choking his neck, while attempting not to stress out about the evening ahead of him. It felt like barely a day had passed between the two nights, yet seven days had come and gone and things were now so very different – more complicated, yet simpler – than they had been last Friday.

At hearing a knock on his bedroom door, Harry turned away from his reflection and, in defeat, ceased clawing at the cravat with an irritated huff. "Come in."

"Nearly ready?" Lily asked, carrying with her into her son's bedroom the floral scent of the perfume that she only ever wore on special occasions – lavender and violet with a hint of honeysuckle.

Harry breathed in deeply, as he registered the enticing scent and he took in the sight that his mother made. Like Harry, she was dressed in expensive, vastly adorned robes. The silk of her bodice was of a powder blue and accentuated her breasts and the curves of her hips sensually, while the skirt of her robes flowed in the same pale blue to the floor in a cascade of ruffles. A light smattering of makeup brushed her eyes, lips, and cheekbones and her hair was done up in a twist of curls upon her head. Diamonds and sapphires hung from her ears and encircled her neck and white gloved wrists, complementing the vivid coloring of her eyes even more so than her robes. She looked beautiful.

Harry told her as much.

"You look quite dashing yourself, young man." Lily smiled at her son, as she surveyed him in his dress robes in return. Every inch of the dark fabric had been designed to empower her son's image and was doing its job marvelously, erasing the youth that defined him as an unready lord and weaving the appearance of a sure and capable wizard in its place. Harry wouldn't merely be her and James's son tonight, nor would he be ever again after this night. He looked the part of Baron of the Peak, if nothing else.

"Dad's meeting us there?" Harry asked. If he thought that killing Rufus Scrimgeour would put an end to his father having to work double shifts, he would have done it last week. Unfortunately, it seemed that the Ministry truly was _that _desperate to have its employees working as many hours as possible – what with people beginning to pour into the country for the upcoming Quidditch World Cup and all the preparations being made for the Triwizard Tournament. Therefore, killing his father's boss wouldn't get his father anymore time off. It would only increase the amount of hours that his father would have to work, as the Ministry would be down a man.

Lily's smile became forced, coming across as more of a grimace. "He's been assigned to the security detail for the ball."

Harry nodded. His father would be present, but working. It wasn't an ideal scenario. He'd been hoping to have his father at his side acting as a guide, as well as a buffer. Knowing that he wouldn't have his father's support for a good majority of the night, spiked his preexisting anxiety.

"Harry, you don't have to do this," Lily said softly, her concern tone and perceptive eyes suggesting that she desired to say more, but knew that no words that she voiced on the matter would make a difference to his resolve. She stepped closer to her son and reached out to place a gentle hand on his cheek. It was a silent plea that spoke their doubts and requested cowardice.

Harry turned away from the gesture, rejecting the request. A pang of guilt washed through him, as his mother dropped her hand and looked to him with hurt that she tried to hide, but failed to do so completely.

"You don't have to do this," Lily said again, a detectable tremor in her voice undercutting her conviction. "Tell your father –"

"Dad isn't forcing me." Harry narrowed his eyes at his mother, his guilt shifting back to irritation – this time the feeling being directed at his mother, instead of his cravat. He imagined that he'd have to deny his father forcing his hand for some time, until people realized how minuscule a hold his father had over his person and his actions.

"Harry, you're still very young." Lily reached for his hand this time. He allowed her to take it, but met her imploring gaze beseeching his compliance with indifferent eyes. "It's not too late. You could wait until you've your NEWTs and are out of Hogwarts. You don't have to declare yourself tonight."

"Mum, I love you dearly," Harry gave his mother's hand a reassuring squeeze that communicated his sincerity, "but you're wrong. This _is_ something that I have to do tonight. I have a responsibility not just you, Dad, and Bethany, but to the people of my district and to the people of Britain who will benefit from my voice in the Wizengamot. If I wait, it may be too late to make a difference, where making a difference truly matters."

Lily gave a resigned sigh, her demeanor acknowledging the determination in her son's words and stubborn set of his jaw. She squeezed Harry's hand in return, as if to tell him that she wasn't disappointed in his decision, merely mourning his youth. "You're so willful, just like your father."

Harry smiled. "He says that I get my pig-headedness from you."

"He would," Lily said with a combination of affection and amusement, as a tentative smile graced her face once more and she released Harry's hand and reached up to fix his cravat. "You and Bethany…you both got a double dose, didn't you?"

"It seems so," Harry agreed and tilted his head back to allow his mother room to work the cravat loose and correct his pour excuse for a knot.

"You'll be careful tonight," Lily said sternly, her nimble fingers lightly tickling against Harry's neck, as she loosed the cravat from his neck and robes with a soft hiss of fabric sliding on fabric.

"Constant vigilance," Harry said and frowned, as his thoughts flitted briefly to Mad-Eye Moody and the fact that the ex-Auror would be locked inside the seventh compartment of the man's own multiple compartment trunk in a little over a month's time. Or so the man would be, if events concerning Voldemort continued to occur similar to how they had in the other world. The fact that Bertha Jorkins had gone missing was a very good indicator that they would. The fact that Pettigrew was supposedly dead in this world, however, was indicative that they wouldn't. But, then again, Pettigrew had faked his death in the other world as well, just at a much earlier point in the timeline.

"Your father and Sirius will shadow you. Stay within their sight."

Harry hummed his acquiescence to his mother's instructions, as she formed his cravat into a proper knot and drew it snug against his neck. Personally, he wasn't concerned about his safety, but if it would make his parents feel better, he wouldn't wander – unless he was given a very good reason to do so, that is.

What concerned Harry about the affair was the politics of the matter. The correct way to go about declaring himself would be to present himself to the Minister of Magic and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot in private, followed by presenting himself to the Wizengamot as a whole body and publishing a Declaration of Intent in the _Daily Prophet_ for the public's perusal_._ To do things properly, however, would risk far more than he was willing to risk. Not to mention, the annual ball that the Ministry hosted in honor of the Boy-Who-Lived's birthday presented him with a far too perfect opportunity to initiate a preemptive strike aimed at securing his position; for he knew how Fudge and Dumbledore worked. If he went about things properly, the two men would make every effort to bury his ambitions before he ever reached the Wizengamot chamber.

Fudge, Harry knew, would reject his claim of Peverell descent and would object to him inheriting the East Midlands, along with him assuming the title of Baron of the Peak and the hereditary seat on the Wizengamot that came with the lands and title, purely out of fear for his own position. The stout man had a good thing going at the moment and a potential change to the current political climate could all too easily threaten the life of easy and luxury that the Minister enjoyed.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, would object to his youth, while silently disapproving of his decision to declare himself a son of Peverell. The aged wizard would be of the mind that the move was one just asking for trouble, which was the truth, as well as the point. Harry, however, wasn't about to read Dumbledore in on his situation or his future plans, as the man would disagree with, if not his objectives, then his methods. There was also the fact that Dumbledore was currently charged with overseeing the East Midlands, and though Harry felt that Dumbledore had built up enough political capital over the years that his source of power was not at all dependent upon his management of the East Midlands, he wasn't confident that Dumbledore wouldn't hold the loss of the district against him or attempt to subvert his rightful claim to what remained of the Honour of Peverell. He knew Dumbledore to be a good man, but the headmaster was a master strategist and usually protected his interests with cunning on par to the dirtiest of politicians. If the East Midlands were of significance to Dumbledore, he would face some pretty serious opposition.

The difference in their motivations aside, both men would have been united on the matter of his ascension, and Harry wasn't particularly fond of his odds in going up against the Minister of Magic and the Chief Warlock in a private sit-down. If he achieved anything tonight, it would be turning the public's eye upon the matter, which would still the hand of most, if not all underhanded attempts to usurp him quietly and would force whatever opposition there was to his ascension onto the political stage for the public to see and speculate about.

As Lily smoothed down the front of her son's robes, which she had just finished refastening the vest of over his cravat, she said, "I don't know what I'll do, if something happens to you."

"Nothing is going to happen to me," Harry promised with such sincerity and confidence that Lily blinked, startled by his conviction.

– – – – –

Mother and son portkeyed away from their family cottage in Godric Hollow and were subsequently deposited in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic in London at precisely seven o'clock. The vast, high ceilinged hall with its polished wood floors, dark marble columns, and window inlayed walls that extend and marked the upper floors of the Ministry was filled with many witches and wizards all dressed to impress and ranging in age from Hogwarts aged youths to nineteenth century adults. The majority of people were conglomerated in small group before the majestic double doors that faced the Fountain of Magical Brethren. The gold statues of the fountain were as royal in appearance as they were a lie and were even more ostentatious than usual with the addition of fairies weaving between their forms and playing in their jets of water and the sparkling pool at their base.

As Harry walked with his mother on his arm over to a familiar blond haired man of average height and wiry build, the double doors opened with a click of the latch giving way that echoed throughout the hall and gave pause to the many conversations. Harry paid no mind to the groups, as they began filing into the ballroom beyond in an orderly, yet excited fashion. His focus was on Dwight Earnshaw and the alcove that the man had snagged.

"Lord Peverell, Mrs. Potter," Mr. Earnshaw greeted with a pleasant smile and bowed to Harry, before kissing the knuckles of Lily's offered hand. "How do you do?"

"How do you do, Mr. Earnshaw?" Lily returned. "Is Helen here tonight?"

"Sadly, no, and I won't be staying very long myself," Mr. Earnshaw said with a keen light in his eyes. "Ben has been acting up the last few days."

Lily's face brightened, making her smile all the more brilliant. "You've named him."

"Benjamin Dwight Earnshaw," the dad to be said proudly and nodded.

"It's a wholesome name," Lily said kindly. "Helen must be getting anxious."

"She not the only one," Mr. Earnshaw said truthfully, a hint of his nervousness showing through his calm demeanor.

"For what it's worth," Harry pinned the man with an earnest look, "I have no doubts that you'll be a good father, if you treat your son half as well as you've treated my family. You're a good man."

"Thank you, my lord." Mr. Earnshaw flushed, appearing to be truly touched.

"I'll let you two get down to business," Lily said, as she glanced between her son and Mr. Earnshaw. She kissed Harry on the cheek and detangled their entangled arms. "I must find Bethany. I will see you both inside."

As his mother's heels clacked away, growing fainter with her every step, Harry maintained his focus on Mr. Earnshaw, who returned his gaze unwaveringly.

"One last signature?" Harry asked, breaking the silence between them.

"No." Mr. Earnshaw reached into the breast pocket of his maroon robes and removed a gold leafed card. "All the paperwork was taken care of the day before last and was quietly pushed through the proper channels yesterday. I merely need to give you this," he held out the card in offer to Harry, "and wish to give you my congratulations, before the night sweeps us away."

Harry accepted the card. A thrill of anticipation mixed with apprehension slithered down his spine and momentarily stilled his breath, as he looked past the vanity of the card and read the embossed words rippling its surface.

_The Right Honorable Harold Peverell,  
The Baron of the Peak_

It was an crier's card – the one that he would pass to the crier, upon entering the ballroom in a few minute's time – the one that the crier would read out for all to hear, unknowingly declaring him.

_This is it,_ Harry thought, as he stared down at the card. For whatever reason, the title of Baron of the Peak felt more real to him than his title of Gray Lord of Europe ever had in the other world. Baron of the Peak; it was his to own, his birthright. Perhaps that was the difference. He didn't know. All he did know was that he had just been handed a potentially devastating weapon, one he would wield against Voldemort's influence and the general rot that infected the upper echelons of Britain's magical society, yet it was a deadly one that could turn upon him, if he didn't watch his back and handle it with care.

"My wife and I live in your district, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw said, drawing Harry's attention back to him. "We look forward to the changes that you'll bring, as will many others. It's nothing against the Chief Warlock – he's a busy man – but, due to how busy he is, his focus has never been on what the district needs or desires. I know you will do better."

"Thank you, Mr. Earnshaw," Harry held out his right hand, "for everything."

"Just doing my job, my lord." Mr. Earnshaw shook Harry's hand.

As Mr. Earnshaw graced him with one last smile and inclined his head towards the ballroom, Harry took back his hand and nodded. "Give your wife my best."

"I will, my lord," Mr. Earnshaw assured. "Good luck tonight." And with their farewells exchanged, he turned away from Harry to join the queue outside the ballroom.

Harry leaned against the wall of the alcove, as he watched Mr. Earnshaw's retreating back. The whine of violins and the sweet melody of flutes combined with the soft tenor of a piano and the undertones of a cello told of the ball truly beginning. He hummed along to the pleasant tune, as more and more people arrived. As was accustom with such events, the later one arrived the more important he or she was. Wealthy business owners and influential Ministry works became Ministry department heads and elected members of the Wizengamot. Dumbledore soon arrived in the company of Minister Fudge, Barty Crouch Sr., and Ludo Bagman. By this point, the orchestra had been quieted to a low drone, so the crier could be heard clearly, as he announced each person of importance.

"_The Right Honorable Algernon Longbottom, The Baron of the Lakes! – The Honorable Frank Longbottom, Head Auror of Squad Delta! Lady Alice of the Noble House of Longbottom, 5__th__ Chair of the Hogwarts Board of Governors! – Guest of Honor, Mr. Neville Longbottom, The Boy-Who-Lived!" w_as the first issue of cries that announced the arrival of the Noble Houses.

A great wave of applause and an increase in chatter emitted from the ballroom.

"_The Right Honorable Lachlan Burke, The Baron of the Bogs! The Right Honorable Elodia Burke, The Lady of the Bogs! – The Honorable Sage Burke, guest Alison Urquhart! – The Honorable Celesta Burke! – The Honorable Tomas Burke! Lady Patricia of the Noble House of Burke!"_ curbed the increased chatter and, after an intermittent pause, was followed by, _"The Right Honorable Ferdinand Macmillan, The Baron of the Isles! The Right Honorable Agatha Macmillan, The Lady of the Isles! – The Honorable Joffrey Macmillan, Order of Merlin, Second Class, Hit Wizard: rank Triple-Star! Lady Delphi of the Noble House of Macmillan! – Ms. Serena Macmillan, guest Vidal Harkiss, Hit Wizard: rank Single-Star! – Mr. Louis Macmillan, guest Kathrin Bell! – The Honorable Henry Macmillan, 11__th__ Chair of the Hogwarts Board of Governors! Lady Anne of the Noble House of Macmillan! – Mr. Ernest Macmillan!"_

Harry listened intently to the crier, as the man announced each person and he observed the Noble Houses enter the ballroom: the O' Cuinns, the Pritchards, the Vanes, the Selwyns, the Greengrasses, the Dunbars, the Talvaces, the Malfoys, and, lastly, the Blacks.

"_The Right Honorable Sirius Black, The Baron of the Channel! The Right Honorable Mayra Black, The Lady of the Channel!"_

Harry cast a tempus spell. _19:27,_ the glowing magic read suspended before him. He shrugged off of the alcove wall. It was time.

The two Aurors stationed on either side of the double doors that led to the ballroom regarded Harry warily, as he approached, his footfalls echoing with a steady, confident rap on the hardwood floor of the Atrium. The female Auror – _short, blonde, fit_ – had been first to notice him secluded within the shadows of the alcove opposite their post and had subtly pointed him out to her male partner – _oaf, not as stupid as he looks_. Both had been keeping an eye on him, though they appeared to have been the only ones to notice him lingering just out of sight.

Harry flashed the Aurors his crier's card, once he was close enough for them to make out the Ministry of Magic seal that was inlayed within the gold leaf of the card. The woman nodded, and he was allowed to pass unhindered. The lax security did not instill Harry with confidence for Britain's future in this world. But, then again, no one but him, Dumbledore, and probably select members of the Order of the Phoenix knew that all was not well, and he was fairly confident that only he, his father, and Sirius knew that they were currently at war – a small, private war for the time being, but a war nonetheless.


	19. Declared

**Chapter 19 – Declared**

The ballroom was as grand and elaborately decorated as was to be expected. That was the first thing Harry noticed, upon stepping through the double door threshold and onto the dark marble balcony that wrapped the expansive dance floor of the same dark marble one story below. The gold tendrils in the marble that had been used to construct not only the dance floor and balcony, but the entire room, and the enormous, five hundred candle, gold chandelier dominating the center rib vault of the lofty ceiling, lighting the room with a spectacular gold hue, were complemented by fanciful, gold hangings with the Ministry of Magic seal embroidered into their silk weave, which were draped every ten feet or so over the artistically carve banisters of the balcony, as well as complemented by rich gold banners embroidered with light gold writing, which hung on the Corinthian style columns that supported the balcony and extended up to support the series of rib vaults high overhead. The banners flashed with showers of gold sparks and read: 'Happy Birthday', 'Neville Longbottom', and 'The Boy-Who-Lived', interchangeably.

Harry had only just taken note of where the orchestra was setup in the shadows on the other side of the balcony, when the crier noticed him and looked to him with confusion.

Continuing his swift, confident stride, Harry stepped past the two aurors stationed just inside the double doors. The one on the right he recognized as John Dawlish and the other he didn't know, but thought had to be a rookie considering the young man's youthful appearance and nervous demeanor. He extended his crier's card to the gold robed crier and watched the crier's face carefully, as the man took the card from him and silently read the name embossed on its surface. He was not the least bit surprised when the crier looked up from the card and frowned at him with uncertainty.

In response, Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, as if asking if the man was so incompetent such that he couldn't fulfill the simple task that had been assigned to him as the crier for the night. It was an intimidating, cynical look that had usually had his lieutenants in the other world jumping over each other in an effort to prove that they weren't a bunch of useless idiots and were actually capable of leading the men under their command and could, indeed, fulfill the duties that he had charged them with. Twenty-three or fourteen, the ability to convey one's meaning and intent with a single, well placed look was to conduct one's environment more effectively than any amount of flowery or heated words ever could.

The crier reddened in embarrassment under the force of Harry's silent mocking and mumbled a hasty apology, before retaking his post and motioning for the orchestra, which had begun to pick up in volume, to quiet once more.

The dancing had yet to truly begin, as greetings were still being exchanged amongst those who had most recently arrive, but the sudden decline in the volume of the orchestra was noticeable to the few who had taken up dancing and gave pause to those who had formed into socializing groups around the edges of the dance floor. As people began looking around to find the source of the interruption, their eyes locked on Harry, who had stepped up to the top of the grand, marble staircase that descended down to the dance floor.

"The Right Honorable Harold Peverell, The Baron of the Peak!" the crier intoned clearly.

Despite his insides doing an anxious twist with the sense of finality that was brought by the crier's cry, Harry retained a calm manner about his person, as he began to descend the stairs. His every step, dress shoes tapping on marble, could be heard distinctly in the quiet that had followed the crier declaring him, as a heavy tension sprung up and filled the silence that was only countered by the low whine of the orchestra.

From a brief scan of the room, Harry could see that reactions were varied. It was all too easy for him to tell those who understood the actual significance of who he was claiming to be and what he had just done, if he truly was who he had just been declared as, from those who didn't. Curious confusion marred the faces of those who didn't have a full grasp on the situation, while shock had momentarily been prevalent amongst those who did, which had transformed all to quickly into speculation, intrigue, distrust, and a few people even displayed looks of open hostility and incredulity that they subsequently quashed with indifference.

Harry didn't focus on any one person or group of persons for more than a few seconds. A passing glance was all he needed to know where potential allies lie and where enemies would be met. As he had predicted, Fudge was none too happy and had a pronounced scowl set upon his pudgy face, as the man's beady eyes swept over him with skepticism and a touch of trepidation. Ever the master of retaining a benevolent, unfazed countenance, Dumbledore watched his descent with polite intrigue that hid the shock that the man had initially experienced, yet did nothing to hide the calculating way the Chief Warlock was analyzing every facet of his person. Lucius Malfoy was, naturally, watching him with a superior air that only just betrayed the fact that the man even considered his existence worth acknowledgement.

_You damn well better acknowledge it,_ Harry thought at the pompous blond. _I'll be coming for you soon enough. Whether you survive the encounter will depend entirely on your ability to acknowledge that I'm a greater threat to you and your family than the Dark Lord ever was or will be._

By the time Harry had reached the base of the stairs, he had taken specific note of several people's reactions and filed them away for future reference. With nearly all eyes still on him, following his every move, and the orchestra slowly rising back up to proper volume, he focused his attention on the Guest of Honor. Neville Longbottom, dressed in fine tailored, teal and cream dress robes, was as fit as ever and roughly an inch taller than when Harry last saw him two months ago; the blond boy's gangly frame was beginning to rival Ron Weasley's in the height department. At taking note of the redness of the lightning bolt scar marring Neville's forehead, a sense of sadness coupled with determination filled Harry. If he played his part well in the coming months, Neville would never have find out what it is like to have to face Voldemort (reborn and at the height of his power) in a duel to the death. Prophecy or not, unwitting horcrux or not, Voldemort's downfall would not be a responsibility shouldered by a child. Not this time.

"Happy Birthday, Mr. Longbottom," Harry said, as he stepped up to Neville and gave the boy a friendly grin.

Neville, ever the observant one, tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and looked Harry up and down with a perplexed expression upon his round face, as if he knew that he should know Harry, but couldn't quite put his finger on how Harry was familiar to him. Considering the changes that he had undergone in the last month and the fact that his hair was tame for once, as well as the fact that his choice of dress was radically different to what it had been a month ago, especially his selection of dress robes for the night, Harry wasn't at all put out that Neville didn't recognize him right away. In fact, he would have been astonished if anyone, even Albus Dumbledore, had immediately connected his persona of Harold Peverell with the shy, mentally trouble boy that he had been known to be as Harry Potter.

It wasn't until Neville met his fellow youth's emerald gaze directly that recognition seemed to dawn on him, causing amused, delighted laughter to erupt from deep within him. Harry's grin broadened in return to Neville's enthusiasm and he allowed himself to be pulled into a welcoming embrace by one true friend in this world who was outside of his immediate family and was of his own generation.

"You're here!" Neville exclaimed happily, as he and Harry separated from their hug that had lasted just long enough to be brotherly, yet not truly intimate.

"I am," Harry agreed.

"Wow!" Neville looked Harry up and down a second time. "When I didn't see you with your mother and Bethany, I thought … Well, I certainly didn't expect this. I mean, I heard that you'd gone to the continent, but still …" he trailed off, a look of consternation marring his brow. After a short pause, however, his face smoothed and his smile returned. "It's good that you're here."

Harry understood the true meaning of Neville's words: it's good that you're well, all too easily. That was one of the things that he had always like about this world's Neville. The blond boy refused to draw attention to the fact that he wasn't exactly normal, let alone ever refer to his nightmares as an illness. Just like the other world's Neville, this world's Neville was loyal to a fault. They had grown up together, played together long before he had ever had his first nightmare, and, over the years, the brotherly bond that had developed between them in their toddler days hadn't changed, even if they had grown apart to an extent. Neville refused to allow it to change. Even under peer pressure, the blond boy had never pushed him away or turned his back on him.

"We'll talk later," Harry leaned in and promised Neville quietly, knowing that Neville would want to know what had happened to him, before he turned his attention to Neville's parents and great-uncle. "Lord Longbottom." He bowed to Algernon Longbottom, before straightening and inclining his head in a polite gesture of acknowledgement to Frank and Alice Longbottom. "Auror Longbottom, Lady Alice."

"Lord Peverell," Algernon said, the elderly gentleman's grizzled whiskers twitching slightly, as he spoke, and his bespectacled eyes fixed upon Harry, showing not the distrust that he had displayed a few moments prior, but respect for a fellow baron. He bowed a half bow, as to not strain his frail body hidden beneath his extravagant, cream dress robes, leaning heavily on his polished ivory walking cane, while his gnarled hand gripped the bear's head that formed the cane's gold handle tightly.

Frank, his blond hair combed back neatly and dressed in his deep red Auror Formal dress robes with his Head Auror badge pinned to his breast, bowed somewhat stiffly, while Alice, her dark curls swirled atop the crown of her head and dressed in a light pink robe that complemented Frank's uniform, curtsied graciously and favored Harry with a smile.

"The summer has treated you well, my lord," Alice said, as her dark eyes swept over Harry in a mothering fashion.

"The summer has been most demanding," Harry corrected good-naturedly.

"Yet you thrive more than you ever have," Alice returned knowingly, her eyes telling him that the changes in him were far too apparent in their positive effect to argue otherwise.

"Perhaps," Harry said, conceding the point, despite knowing that he had thrived to an even greater extent in the other world. Not that anyone outside his father and godfather would ever know as much.

"There is no perhaps about it, my lord," Algernon said firmly, drawing Harry's attention back to him. The elderly man was studying Harry circumspectly. "Your parents must be very proud."

"O_r_ very foolish. I dare say very foolish indeed."

"Lord Selwyn," Algernon greeted tersely, his eyes snapping up and stilling over Harry's left shoulder.

Before Harry could even turn, a clean shaven man in his fifties, who was of average height and was somewhat portly around the middle, was beside him and looking down at him with a face scrunched up and filled contempt, as if he were in the presence of something truly horrendous. A woman of the same age, who was rail thin and vulture-esque in her appearance, had her nose up in the air, and was clearly pretending that Harry and the Longbottoms didn't exist, was on the man's arm. Both were dressed in rather ostentatious dress robes. The man's robes were of a deep blue silk and would have been normal enough, if it weren't for the silver sparks of magic that flashed here and there, giving the vague impression that the man was wearing the night sky. The woman's robes, however, were a cycling rainbow of color. It took Harry a moment to figure out that her robes were meant to complete the theme of her husband's robes and depict the sky during the day, as the sun passes overhead. Pink hues in the morning, brilliant blues at high noon, an orange glow as the sun sets over the horizon, and repeat, one color fading into the next.

_Overcompensating,_ Harry thought, as he scanned his eyes over the magical robes. While the robes would have impressed a muggle or someone who couldn't charm a tea cozy, the charms used on the robes were basic and didn't even give the full impression that the Selwyns wished to give. Which left two options: the Selwyns had a tailor who was terrible at charms and couldn't afford a better one, or the Selwyns had added the charms themselves and were lacking in magical prowess. Either way, they wished to appear to be more than what they actually were. As the robes were of silk and tailored perfectly, Harry was inclined to believe that the Selwyns' tailor knew what he or she was doing and the Selwyns had added the charms to the robes themselves. _Definitely overcompensating._

"Just how is it that _you _have come to inherit the Peverell legacy?" Lord Selwyn asked with a snide, pompous air, addressing Harry as if he were nothing more than a child who was attempting to play dress up and didn't understand his proper place in society. "All present, myself included, have been under the impression that _that_ particular bloodline was dead. Yet, here you stand claiming the Peverell name and legacy as brazen as can be …"

An angry, disapproving huff to his right drew Harry's attention back to Algernon, who was now glaring daggers at Lord Selwyn and gripping his cane tight enough to turn his knuckles completely white. It was more than plain that the elderly gentleman was not incensed on his behalf. _Yes, Lord Longbottom, because I am so much more susceptible to a subtle approach,_ Harry thought with derision. The instant that Algernon had brought up his parents, he had known the direction their conversation was headed – not that he hadn't known even before the crier had declared him that his lineage would come under question at one point or another before the night's end.

Without betraying his inner thoughts, Harry returned his attention to Lord Selwyn who was clearly expecting an articulated response, or perhaps just a bit of stammering. "I imagine, Lord Selwyn," he said, looking up at the salt-and-peppered haired man and ignoring Lady Selwyn just as she was pretending to ignore him, "that the process of my inheriting the Honour of Peverell was not much different to the one you underwent to inherit the Selwyn Estate. Though, the authentication of my lineage most definitely took a considerable time longer than it had for you to prove your birthright by one generation. Seven hundred years, after all, makes for many generations between myself and the last true Baron of the Peak. Ministry Certified Solicitor and Licensed Authenticator, Mr. Dwight Earnshaw was more than up to the task, nonetheless."

Harry paused and gave Lord Selwyn a look that bordered on being patronizing, judging the man to be of the blustering, self-important type who didn't have a strong bite behind his bark, much like his muggle uncle, Vernon Dursley. "As it has been so long since my nineteenth great-grandfather, Ignotus, lived and breathed as a public figure, yours and other's misconceptions about my family's continued existence are understandable. I suppose I shouldn't hold you're misguided convictions against you. It would be unfair of me." He moved his gaze over Lord Selwyn assessingly, giving the impression that he was considering the man's merit. "I assume that your rudeness at present was conducted with the continued preservation of the Honour of Peverell, through true blood or by proper administration, in mind … that is … unless you wish for me to believe differently."

The low hiss of whispered conversations around Harry, the Longbottoms, and the Selwyns quieted no sooner than they had begun. Once more, Harry found many eyes were fixed upon him. If he wasn't so used to people attempting to listen into his conversations, he might have been pissed about the blatant eavesdropping. As it was, he had come to assume that any and all conversations held in public were, by de facto, public conversations. In fact, more often than not, he counted on conversations held in public being overheard. Nothing could misdirect the enemy better than false information acquired by a spy who believed that he or she had acquired said information by stealth.

Lord Selwyn held Harry's gaze for a count of ten heartbeats, a shade of anger and apparent wariness combating his superior sense of self. Finally, he bowed his head to Harry in a grudging gesture of respect, seeming to understand that though Harry was young, he was no easy target and might possibly be a formidable enemy. "You believe correctly, my lord. Please excuse me."

As Harry knew that that was probably the best that he'd get from the man, he raised no objection when the man proceeded to turn away from him and the Longbottoms and directed his wife towards the dance floor.

"Isn't the House of Potter seven hundred years old?"

Harry looked to Neville and beamed. "Why yes, Neville! What an astute observation! Now, if you have no one else to greet, celebratory drinks and dancing with beautiful women are in order."

"Can't argue with that," Neville said, looking at Harry like he wasn't quite sure what to make of him, despite being more than agreeable to his suggestion of drinks and dancing.

The two teenagers slipped away from the crowd of high ranking, political figures without anyone trying to stop them or call them back.

"Dumbledore was looking at you as if you were a fascinating new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare," Neville commented a bit too casually, as he and Harry headed over to the butterbeer fountain that doubled as an intricate ice sculpture of flowering vines twisting around themselves, which had been placed conveniently under the right side of the wrap around balcony and next to a long buffet style table dressed with a fancy gold table cloth bearing the Ministry of Magic seal, which held an assortment of hors d'oeuvres.

"Was he?" Harry asked, attempting to figure out if being regarded as a new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare was beneficial to his agenda or not.

Neville was a bit like Hagrid, when it came to dangerous things. Cute and fluffy in Hagrid-tongue equated to fascinating and ingenious in Neville-speak. The only difference was that one was talking about dragons, while the other was talking about a plant that could consume a man whole, if not 'breathe' flames as well. Harry hadn't been paying all that much attention to Dumbledore, as it wasn't Dumbledore's intrigue that he had been after and he hadn't wanted it to seem like it was. Spiking the Chief Warlock intrigue was unavoidable, yes. But there was a difference between spiking intrigue and purposefully generating it. So the question now was whether Dumbledore was curious or wary of him. With being regard as a new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare according to Neville, it could go either way. Neville, at least, had the sense to know when something was dangerous and required caution, unlike Hagrid who thought that a Cerberus was a perfectly fine pet.

"Mm-hmm." Neville didn't elaborate.

"Was he curious or wary, Neville?" Harry asked bluntly. He was going to have to train Neville on how to give a helpful report.

"I told you, he was looking at you as if you were a new hybrid species of Venomous Tentacula and Devil's Snare." Neville shrugged. "You know, like a Venomous Snare or a Devil's Tentacula." He paused. "I wonder, if they _can _be crossed. A Devil's Snare with the Venomous Tentacula's abilities and resistance to light would be an even more effective guard plant. Great-Uncle Algie bought me a book on…"

Harry tuned out Neville's ramblings, as he turned away from the blond boy to capture him and Neville each a glass of butterbeer from one of the ice flower's pouring the frothing, gold colored substance in an endless stream. He didn't like dealing with Devil's Snare or Venomous Tentacula on a good day. Merlin forbid, if he had to handle a hybrid of the two. Knowing Neville, though, there would be a hybrid species, as soon as his friend figured out how to accomplish it.

"Cheers, mate." Harry passed Neville a mug of butterbeer and held up his own. "Fourteen and counting!"

"Fourteen and counting!" Neville said and _clink_ed his mug with Harry's. It wasn't actually either of their birthdays, but they drank to their birthdays nonetheless. The 29th was close enough the 30th and the 31st.

"So what do you think?" Neville asked, looking to Harry with expectation and an eager, excited light in his eyes.

"Great, I think it's great," Harry said, not entirely sure what they were talking about but assuming that Neville's question had something do with the cultivation of a Venomous Snare or whatever Neville would name his hybrid.

"Great-Uncle Algie will probably go for it, but Dad doesn't like me spending so much time in the greenhouse, you know. I might be able to harvest the seeds this season and maybe next season I could…" Neville continued his one-sided herbology discussion.

Being sure to listen to Neville with a half ear, in case if Neville said something that required a response or asked for his opinion, Harry sipped at his butterbeer, enjoying the cool, sweet nectar and the carbonation tickling his nose and filling senses, and scanned the ballroom. A few people were still surreptitiously watching him and Neville, but most had taken up conversation with those closest to them or had taken to the dance floor, swaying and gliding to the orchestra in accordance to their dancing inclinations. A good majority of the party attendees were adults, he noted. Yet, the grouping of Hogwarts students congregated in the left hand corner of the room was difficult to miss. Amongst the privileged youths were the usual suspects: Draco Malfoy, Gavid and Dunhan Talvace, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, Celesta Burke, Maisie and Fay Dunbar, Ernie Macmillan, Susan Bones, Zacharias Smith, Anthony Goldstein, Padma and Parvati Patil, Lavender and Daniel Brown, Cassius and Astra Warrington, Lucian Bole, Zinnia, Pansy, and Bennett Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Thorburn Urquhart…

"…and I'll use Bethany as a human incubator for the seedlings."

"Mum would never allow it," Harry said, as he turned away from his observations and back to Neville. "Neither would I."

"Just checking to see if you were listening." Neville smiled innocently.

"Where _is_ Bethany?" Harry asked, his eyes scanning the room. Romilda Vane and Victoria Frobisher were among the other Hogwarts aged guests, both hanging off of Zacharias Smith's every word. His sister, however, wasn't anywhere in sight.

"She's with your dad and none too happy." Neville nodded to their right.

Looking around Neville and further up the darker recesses of the balcony overhang, Harry saw his sister having a quiet, yet heated conversation with their father who looked every inch of an Auror in his Auror Formal dress robes. Harry sighed, as he took in his sister's state. The upset flush coloring her face clashed unbecomingly with her violet robes, her eye makeup appeared smudged at the corners, and, if the light of the oil lamps adorning the walls every so many feet wasn't playing tricks, tear tracks stained her cheeks.

"Her and Dad are a bad combination these days," Harry said regretfully, his gaze shifting in search of his mother, who he hoped would be able to resolve the situation quietly. Upon locating her amongst a group of guests across the room and seeing that she was otherwise engaged by none other than Albus Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge, he sighed for a second time. "Pardon me." He gave Neville an apologetic look.

"I'll just get a head start on dancing," Neville said and frowned in the direction of their peers. Harry and Bethany were the only ones from Neville's usual crowd of friends in attendance of the ball. The current object on his affections, Ms. Hannah Abbott, was not in attendance, nor was Ms. Ginevra Weasley, his second closest female friend after Bethany.

"Fay's decent enough," Harry offered, unable to keep the all too knowing grin off of his face. _It's always the quite ones._

"You _are_ going to tell me what you've done with my friend, Lord Peverell," Neville said sternly, his lips twitching at the corners and amusement dancing in his eyes.

"Later," Harry promised.

"But not tonight."

"But not tonight," Harry agreed. Neville always was quick on the up take, a trait he both loved and hated about his friend in both worlds, as it meant that it was rather difficult to slip much of anything past the blond. "Now I really must go rescue my sister…or my father. I'm not entirely sure which."

Neville laughed. "My galleons are on your father."

As Neville headed over to their fellow Hogwarts aged guests with his eyes set upon The Honorable Fay Dunbar, Harry headed up the seclusion of the balcony overhang, in the direction of his father and sister.

"Not so fast," a familiar voice said, as an arm slipped over his shoulders and the scent of spirits and cigar smoke filed Harry's lungs.

"Sirius," Harry greeted, wondering just when exactly it had been that his godfather had discarded his sobriety for the night. He cast a glance in his father and sister's direction. He and Sirius were far enough away that they remained unnoticed by the two. As he still couldn't hear what was being said between them, though he was several paces closer to them, and had develop a buzzing in his ears, he gathered that his father was using the Muffliato Charm to block their conversation from being overheard_._

"You go find a lovely young lady to dance with," Sirius said, his words steady and firm, as the man leaned close to Harry in order to keep _their_ conversation from being overheard. "I'll take care of Bethany." And before Harry could even give any sort of response, Sirius was striding off in the direction of James and Bethany.

Deciding to take his godfather's advice and leave Sirius to defuse whatever the issue was between his father and sister, Harry turn towards the dance floor with the intention of finding a dance partner.


End file.
